


Whiskey.  Neat

by Ranngl



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-23 06:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10714164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranngl/pseuds/Ranngl
Summary: There was only one thing that could get Greg to leave classes and rush back to West Covina: his dad.  And the news was not good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks,  
> My hope for Greg's return to the show is waning, so I've decided to entertain at least one of the plot bunnies bouncing around in my head. The warnings, etc., may change the farther we get into this story. For now, enjoy, and please leave a review. I take them to heart.

Joshua Felix Chan loved his job.He talked to awesome people all day.He got to sell and play with dope electronics.He got the blue polo and cargo shorts uniform for free, _and_ the  poké was tasty and available all day!And if that meant they had to take turns cleaning out the fridge and it made their backroom smell a little, who cares?It’s poké! 

Josh walked across the carpeted floor to speak to a confused-looking older man looking at the DVD plyers – _whaaaa_ _? People still used DVD players?!_  he thought -- when his favorite customer, Ed, bopped through the swinging glass doors of Aloha Tech.

__

__

“DUDE!” Josh called, abandoning the older gentlemen and practically skipping to envelope Ed in a bro-hug, slapping his t-shirted back twice before pulling away.“Ed!How’re those speakers I hooked you up with?I’ve been dying to hear!”

“Hey!Josh-Man!” Ed bellowed, as joyful as a playful pitbull.“You wouldn’t _believe_ , man, how awesome it sounds!We put on _Fast 4_ the other day and, BOOM!”Ed threw his arms up and Josh had to lean back to avoid getting accidentally hit.“Sick, man.SICK.”

Josh beamed and threw his arms up in a mirror of Ed, his voice carrying to the cashier.The cashier shot them an annoyed look.“I KNEW those suckers would be perfect for you!” Josh cried.

“The decibels are suh-weet, too, man.Like you wouldn’t believe!”

In his back pocket, Josh felt his phone vibrate against his leg.The older gentlemen glancing at the DVD players extended a pointer finger, trying to get Josh’s attention.Over at the registers, the cashier cleared her throat meekly.“I know, right?!That receiver with those features …” Josh took the phone out of his pocket, glancing at the lit screen briefly.Serrano was calling.The smile on Josh’s face fell and he paused.Ed gleefully seized the opportunity to resume acting out his movie.Josh mentally turned down _Fast 4_ as he looked at his phone.There was no way Chan wanted to talk to Serrano right now.

He hadn’t talked to the guy for a couple of weeks because Greg had been such a dick on their last call.Even when Serrano left Josh and everyone else he knew in West Covina three months ago, they had talked regularly by phone, skype and email.He remembered their last call very vividly because it had gotten real tense real quick when Josh had mentioned that he was planning on traveling with Rebecca to New York to in a few weeks attend a family bar mitvah.Greg had finally showcased the judginess he was famous for and Josh had taken to pacing agitatedly on the sidewalk in front of the boba shop.

“Josh, buddy, going to New York with Rebecca -- that’s not a good idea,” Greg had said, his voice calm but deep like it got when he thought he was right about everything.

Josh had been annoyed at the unasked-for advice.Greg always thought he knew better and Josh was a grown man.He knew how to handle situations.He knew what he was doing.Right?“C’mon, Greg, she’s not that bad” Josh had argued, feeling an urge to prove it.“I know you and her had that thing, but that’s no reason to not go.”

“No, Josh, you gotta listen to me on this,” Greg had pressed, voice serious.“Rebecca needs to work through some things …”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Greg,” Josh snapped, his eyes narrowed.He gestured dismissively despite Greg not being able to see him.“I know what I’m doing.I’d like to get away from town for a little bit, anyway.Work’s been super busy with the new TVs coming in and I could use the break.”

“Chan, c’mon,” Greg said slowly.“Don’t let yourself get sucked back in.Remember?The thing with the apartment?The prenatal vitamin incident?Don’t go for it.”Greg’s voice changed to a playful, teasing tone, as if he was trying to lighten the conversation.“I mean, I know how easy it is to get sucked back in, but don’t do it again.”

_What the hell?_ Josh thought, his annoyance flashing to anger.Like Greg should have a say in his relationship with Rebecca.I mean, the guy was halfway across the country and what business was it of his what he did with Rebecca?“Don’t tell me what to do, Serrano,” his voice raised.“You’ve _always_ tried to do that.I’m not a kid anymore!I’m a grown-ass man and I’ll do what I want!”

“Those aren’t usually words grown-ass men use, Chan.Just so you know,” Greg had snapped, before a beat of silence.Then he sighed deeply.Josh halted his frenetic pacing on the sunny sidewalk.“Look, Josh, I don’t want to fight about this.I’m just trying to help.You know a trip to New York won’t end well.”

Josh’s anger spiked again.Stupid Greg and his stupid advice.“Stop it, Greg.I don’t need your advice on this and it’s not your call.”Greg said nothing in response and the judgement Josh sensed in the silence pissed him off even more.“You just don’t want me to be with Rebecca because you’re still in love with her!”There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone and Josh’s mouth hung open as he fully processed what he just screamed on a sidewalk in the middle of West Covina. _Oh, boy …_ Josh thought.

Greg’s voice broke the tense silence, quiet and low.“She told you that, did she?”

“Yeah, she did,” Josh snapped.“She also told me that you just _abandoned_ her in the middle of the airport when she was crying.”This would do it, Josh knew.He wanted Greg to scream at him.He wanted Greg to be as angry as he was right now.Greg always complained about his mom leaving him, but what did Greg end up doing to all of them?He just left.And maybe he had a good reason.And maybe he was following his dream and, maybe bettering himself, or whatever, but he still left.His best friend took a part of Josh to Atlanta and Josh had never even wanted to _go_ to Atlanta.And dammit, Josh was hurt that Greg’s dream involved leaving.Involved not staying in West Covina and rejecting everything that Josh had chosen for himself.Like he was rejecting Josh.

When Greg did respond, his anger seethed into his words, barely in check.“And did she tell you this _information_ ,” Greg bit off the words, “when she was convincing you to go to New York with her?”

_How the hell had Greg figured that out?_ “Yeah.Yeah, she did, but that had nothing to do with that.”Greg snorted incredulously.“She was just pointing out how healthy and unbroken I was in comparison to …” Too late, Josh’s brain kicked in and made him realize what he had just said to his best friend, the implications hurtful and heart wrenching.

The words had hung heavily between them, dark and heavy.“In comparison to whom, Chan?” Greg growled, his temper finally bubbling over.

Josh didn’t answer.

“In comparison to WHOM?” Greg screamed.

Silence stretched between them, Josh gaping and stone-like on the sunny sidewalk, Greg breathing audibly on the other side of the line as if he were trying to calm himself.Between the two of them, Greg found his voice first even though it was barely controlled. “Josh, I’ve been sober for almost three months now.It’s been hard.Real hard, especially in a new place with my _friends_ ,” he spat out the word, “on the other side of the country.And yeah, I have some things to sort through.”

Josh felt his anger deflate as Greg spoke, guilt rushing in to take its place.“Greg …” he began, voice soft, hoping to be able to take back what he said.Greg cut him off.

“But do you know the only thing worse than having issues and working on them?”Josh stayed silent, not knowing how to answer.“The only thing worse is having issues and being willfully blind to them.Letting them control your life.Sound familiar, Chan?”

Josh gasped, brown eyes wide.“Greg …” he began.

“Talk to you later, Chan,” Greg interrupted.“Enjoy New York.”He hung up.

Josh’s focus faded back to Aloha Tech and Ed’s description of his “dope-ass subwoofer”, seemingly oblivious to Josh’s inattention.Josh sighed and looked at his phone again, Greg’s name and a selfie of the two of them – Josh smiling, Greg making a face -- bright on the screen.Several weeks had passed since he had spoken to Greg and the guilt and the anger were still there.He didn’t want to talk to Greg.Serrano had been an ass on that call and Josh still felt bad about kind of being an ass, too.Besides, he told himself, he was at work and he wasn’t allowed personal phone calls while at work.So that really settled that and he totally had no problems with leaving Greg hanging.Nope.Not at all.Rules were rules.

Josh hit _reject_ and slipped the phone away, focusing back on the customer, who was wrapping up his story.“Well, man,” Josh said, smiling broadly again and slapping him congenially on the arm.“If you think that’s good, let me show you these awesome headphones we just got in.They basically make your laptop sound like its own stereo system. Sooooo cool.”He took the customer by the arm and gestured across the store, walking him to the display.

His phone remained in his back pocket, ignored.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter of this fic. Please read and review!

Ahh _,_ Josh Wilson sighed happily. _There’s nothing better than burpees_.Satisfied with his rep count, he shot up, a single drop of sweat trailing its way down his temple.He shook out his legs to ease some of the fatigue before trotting across the pale wooden floor to grab a kettle bell for his next exercise set.His footsteps echoed in the otherwise empty room.He loved feeling his body respond and overcome stress when faced with obstacles.He loved working to make sure challenges in the future were lessened with each goal he reached.

This out-of-the way classroom was his favorite in the gym.The midday sun always hit it just right so that the windows in the back glowed.When he would come here for some private lunch-time exercises, the midday sun would hit the mirrors just right, the wood floor glowing.The room would smell pleasantly like wood and made the entire space cozy and warm.

The fact that the sunny backlighting really helped him focus on his form in the mirrors was particularly helpful as well.He could better target his glutes in one exercise and his triceps in another.

A knock on the glass door interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Darryl, adorably awkward in a gray suit.He carried a white plastic bag in his hand, smiling self-consciously.Meeting his eyes, Darryl smiled and waved.Josh returned it and waved him in, warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the midday sun.

“Darryl!” Josh greeted, giving his boyfriend a quick peck on the lips.“This is surprise.What’s up?”

“You know I love watching you do burpees.So impressive!” Darryl gushed.“The way you snap back after the squat and drop down into a push-up, it’s just so amazing.I mean, I can barely even do the jump at the end and here you are adding in the push-up …”

Josh Wilson grinned fondly, grabbing Darryl’s hand.“Thanks, hon.I love that you’re here, but what’s with the surprise visit?I was expecting to see you back at your apartment tonight.”

Darryl physically shook himself out of his train of thought about his boyfriend doing burpees and kind of shifted from foot to foot.“Well, I know you have clients, like,” Darryl angled his head back and forth – Josh Wilson smiled at the endearing nature of it – “like, almost all night, so I wanted to drop by and bring you …” Darryl trailed off dramatically, his hand dipping into the plastic bag and rustling it as he groped about, “lunch!” he proclaimed, presenting a sealed red Tupperware.

“Oh wow!” Josh Wilson gushed, taking the plastic container and popping it open.“Would you look at that!”

Darryl leaned over him, proudly pointing out the various foods with a running commentary, even as the scents drifting up from the container made Josh’s stomach grumble.“So what you have here is some brown rice with a touch of capers – great carbs for sustained energy and fiber to, y’know, keep everything moving the right direction,” Darryl gestured to his gut.Josh grinned and nodded.“Some chicken breast, boneless and skinless, of course for great lean protein without the fat,” Darryl’s voice dropped to a whisper and he spoke behind his hand, “because I know the fat makes you gassy.”

“Don’t you know it!” Josh agreed.

“All of it sautéed in a light garlic and white wine sauce with …” he paused dramatically despite the fact that the entire meal was clearly visible, Josh smiling up into his face, “wilted spinach and arugula for those healthy greens!Ta-da!Lunch!”

“Awesome!” Josh Wilson exclaimed, grabbing the offered fork and sitting on a nearby bench.He started digging in the minute his burpee’d butt hit the bench.“This is perfect, Hon.I have twenty minutes between clients and I was just going to grab a protein smoothie for lunch.This is sooo much better.”

Darryl smiled indulgently.“Well, I just thought, y’know, that you bring me lunch at work all the time and I just kind of wanted to show how much I appreciate it.And you.”Darryl joined him on the workout bench and gleefully watched the food disappear.

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Josh said, smitten, and he looked at Darryl.“I appreciate you too, D.”They leaned towards one another, sharing a soft but prolonged kiss.

Josh Wilson’s phone rang from across the room, the ringtone belting out “Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues” and vibrating harshly in time to the music against the hard, wooden floor.They broke off their kiss, Josh’s arugula-laden fork still halfway to his mouth.“Oh, just ignore it,” Darryl pleaded.“I want to keep smooching.”

Josh Wilson smirked but his eyebrows furrowed.He considered, but then rejected it.“Sorry.I’m so sorry, Babe, but let me take a raincheck.That’s Greg’s ringtone and it’s kind of weird for him to be calling.”He stood up and put his lunch down on the bench, crossing the room to his phone.

“I thought you just talked to him last night.Why would he be calling now?Isn’t it, like, 3:00 in Georgia?”

“Yeah.That’s why it’s weird.Most of his classes are in the afternoons. That’s why he usually doesn’t call until the evenings.”He bent down to pick up the phone.One of his favorite pictures greeted him when he turned over his phone.Greg was doing one of his impressions in the foreground, his face open and happy, while Hector and Josh Chan were laughing to either side of him: Hector with his arm wrapped around Greg’s shoulders and Josh Chan throwing his head back.It was one of the few pictures anyone had of Greg that Greg hadn’t grumbled about.Josh Wilson, as the photographer, had proudly taken that as a compliment.He dragged his thumb across the face of the phone, opening the call.“Hey Greg,” he answered cheerfully.“What’s up, man?Wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a while.”

Greg’s voice sounded loud over the speakers, quick and urgent and far from his usual dead-pan sarcasm or grumpy ranting.Josh Wilson’s face fell in concern and he walked back across the wood floor, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room, to stand next to Darryl.“Can you hear this?” he mouthed to his boyfriend, who nodded.

“I need a few favors, man.I’m sorry about the late notice and calling you when you’re working -- you’re probably with a client.I tried calling Chan but he’s not picking up his phone and that’s weird because Chan always picks up his phone, so I tried calling you to see if you could do me a few favors.I need some help.”Greg’s voice was panicked and edged as if he were barely keeping it together.

“Woah, woah, woah, Greg, slow down.You don’t sound like you.”Josh Wilson shared a look with Darryl and his concern was reflected in Darryl’s face.Josh Wilson felt a knot of worry lodge itself in his chest and the warm, glowing room suddenly felt hot and stuffy.

“It’s my dad.Something happened at the retirement home,” Greg blurted, tripping over his own words.“They rushed him to the hospital and they’re saying …” his sentence squeezed off suddenly and Josh Wilson couldn’t be sure, but was that a hitch in breath on the other end?

“Greg, man, Greg you there?” Josh asked. “Take a breath, dude.Just take a breath and tell me what’s up.”

Greg’s voice came back, heavy and laden.“I need to get home, WhiJo.I need to see my dad.”

“Of course.Whatever you need on this end, I’ll take care of it."Josh Wilson felt his heart pound as the knot of worry grew in his chest, but his voice was calm and steady.Darryl looked on, fidgeting and stroking anxiously at his mustache.

Greg had calmed somewhat, his voice clearer after a brief pause.“Get me a hotel room,” he said.“I don’t care where.I’ll pay you back.And I need a ride from LAX, even if it’s an Uber.My flight lands at 8:30 p.m. Pacific.The only direct flight I could get was into LAX.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.Anything you need.I’m right here for you.”

Greg sounded slightly relieved, his voice steadier.“Thanks, WhiJo.Thanks, man.I hate to ask this, too, but my dad’s at Queen of the Valley Hospital.Just off East Cameron?Can you just stop by?If you can, let him know I’m on my way and tell him not to worry?He’s never trusted plane travel.”

“No problem,” he paused and he heard someone talking to Greg in the background.The panicked, edged tone of Greg’s voice was back as he spoke to whomever it was.“Greg, are you okay?You really don’t sound okay.”

“I’m … “ he began before the voice in the background was back, insistent.“Shit, WhiJo, I gotta go.”His voice rang with tension.“I still have to get through security before my flight leaves.I’ll see you tonight.”

“Sure, of course.But Greg, what airline …” he began before the call was disconnected.

Josh Wilson locked eyes with Darryl as the arm holding the phone dropped by his side. Darryl was practically twitching with anxiety. “That may have been the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with Greg, and I’ve taken him home from a TON of benders.”

“What’s going on, Hon?”

“I honestly have no clue.But Greg’s dad is in the hospital and it really doesn’t sound good.”Josh Wilson put his hands on his hips, sighing and looking around the room.It smelled of rubber equipment, free weights and sweat.“I’m worried, babe.I’m really worried.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, again, folks. Please enjoy the newest chapter and don't forget to leave comments!

_Once upon a time_ , Greg thought as he hurried from the arrivals gates at LAX, _this was home._   He strode through the airport, his feet dragging on the thin industrial carpet, his bag trailing behind.   His last trip to an airport three months ago, after his whirlwind departure from West Covina had left him standing, exhausted, at the arrival gate in Atlanta. 

                 At that gate three months ago, he had stared at the backs of his fellow travelers as they walked past his frozen form on their way to their connections, to their lodging, or to their homes.  He had looked around at the completely alien environment and realized that he really had nothing but a dream here.  No family.  No friends.  Not even a place to live.

                Three months ago, he had wondered if he was crazy for doing what he had just done: moving across the country at the drop of a hat for a dream.  Maybe WhiJo had been correct.  He could have started the next semester, he supposed, and taken a few months to get housing set up, or worked on his recovery a little bit more.  He could have made sure his dad was settled in.  Or he could NOT have dropped a bomb on his friends for the second time in six weeks.  Y’know.  Maybe he could have actually *transitioned* out of West Covina and everything he had known for his entire life.  “Excuse me, sir?” a perky voice asked from behind as he felt a touch on his arm.  He turned to see a female flight attendant looking at him expectantly.  A vague Southern accent wove through her voice and she looked tired, probably heading home for the day.  “Sir?” she asked again.  “Are you alright?”  A light brown curl had fallen into her large eyes and she reminded Greg powerfully of Rebecca.

                It was at that point three months ago that he had realized that he was completely right to leave West Covina the way he did.  He needed to drop everything to get healthy and to get on with his life.  If he had waited, he would have never left.

                Suddenly, he found himself hurrying straight back into his past, pulling his rolling bag through LAX, rushing home to care for his father.  If he hadn’t been so damned frazzled, he would have appreciated the poetic irony.  Right now, though, he was more interested in getting to the hospital to see his dad.  He was exhausted and dragging his feet, his swollen and bruised hand shooting through with pain every time he moved a finger.  _That fucking wall_ , he thought.  He probably smelled horrible.  He still wore the plain olive crew-neck and tan shorts that he wore to class that morning.  He yanked his rolling luggage behind him with his left hand and shifted his backpack on his shoulder, stuffed with bare necessities and books to study, should he get the chance.  It was Wednesday, so he’d be missing at least two days of classes while this thing with his dad got resolved.  Because it was going to resolve.  Greg couldn’t even contemplate the possibility that it wouldn’t.

                _Thank God for WhiJo_ , Greg thought.  He had kept in touch with Josh, WhiJo and Hector by email, phone and, begrudgingly, social media after he left.  He spoke to his dad at least every couple of days as they both settled into their new lives: Greg, first in a hotel and then in a new apartment close to campus and Marco in the assisted living facility.

                Marco seemed happy at Barely Seniors, though the name always forced an eyeroll from Greg.  Marco had gushed over the swimming pool – “for water therapy, Gregory,” his dad had said -- and the swim-up bar had a connected hot tub.  “It helps my breathing.  And so do the ladies!”

                Whenever his father brought out his lecherous side, Greg was quick to change the subject.  He did _not_ want to hear about his father’s sex life at the senior living facility.  He didn’t want to hear about anyone’s sex life in a senior living facility, for that matter.  Instead, he and his father talked about the social evenings, the outings, and the treatment regimens Marco promised he followed.  “You shouldn’t be worrying about me.  I have enough people hovering over me every day – take this pill, Marco, try this nebulizer, Mr. Serrano -- that even you should be happy.  It’s like living around five different helicopters at any given time.”  Greg recognized the attempted reassurance in his dad’s teasing and had always smiled. 

                 “Good. Just be sure to listen to them.  That way I won’t have to come back and check in as often.”  Greg used that barb commonly. 

                  His father almost always answered proudly, “You are right where you need to be Greg.  You stay there so that I can see you in that cap and gown in a couple years.”

                  As Greg rushed to the main terminal, he realized that in the last couple of weeks, his Dad had asked more and more about school and Atlanta – and Greg had been happy to tell him – and spoke less and less about his own health and treatment regimens.  In retrospect, Greg recognized it for what it was: deflection.  Had his father’s heath gotten worse and Marco had intentionally not mentioned it?  _I should have called the facility itself_ , Greg kicked himself.

                That would explain why when Greg got a call from the facility, he glanced at his watch, a little over eleven hours ago, saying that his father was in the hospital, Greg had, to be fair, freaked the fuck out as he had tried to process what the doctor on call at Barely Seniors had said.

                Marco had apparently gone for a swim that morning -- which he wasn’t supposed to do before his breathing therapy.  Marco had dived into the deep end -- which he wasn’t supposed to do at all.  Marco had even left his oxygen tank in his apartment -- which he was supposed to have with him at all times!  There was even a lit cigarette next to his towel on the deck and he wasn’t even supposed to HAVE cigarettes anymore!

                Greg’s footsteps fell heavier as he began to thud his way through the airport.  Dammit, his dad was supposed to be taking care of himself!  He was supposed to be following the doctor’s instructions!

                In the pool, Marco had suffered a severe attack of shortness of breath – because he was HOLDING his breath, which, again, HE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO DO, and he had started struggling.  By the time they had pulled him out of the water, he was already unconscious.  The rushed him directly to the hospital.

                At least when Greg got this news, he didn’t punch through a wall, but only because what he thought was drywall was actually cinder block.  He learned that little tidbit when he felt and heard the bones of his hand crunch against it.

                The resultant pain, throbbing and swelling of his right hand had rendered it nearly unusable, and forced him to awkwardly use his left hand for most things, including notifying his faculty adviser, Barry, as well as the folks back home -- WhiJo and Josh -- while dashing to book a flight and get to the airport on time. 

               He had called Chan three times.  Josh had never picked up.

*********

 

                Josh Wilson and Hector fidgeted at the bottom of the escalators in the cavernous atrium and looked up.  The natural light that usually flooded the place was gone and the night sky showed dark through the windows and skylights.  The ambient florescent lights illuminated the cream, overly-polished stone floor.  A few people still bustled through the quiet atrium, hopefully heading home.

                Josh Wilson stood in flipflops, cargo shorts and a tank top, his arms crossed across his muscular chest.  He anxiously leaned from side to side as he stared up into the lights at the top of the escalator.  Hector stood to his left, his hands in his pockets, his gaze alternating between the top of the escalators, Josh Wilson’s concerned face, and indiscriminately around the large atrium.  “Are you sure we had the right flight?” Hector checked.

                “Yep.  Only flight direct from Atlanta to LAX that got in at 8:30.  Greg confirmed when he was boarding.”

                “Where is he, then?” Hector asked, leaning into his friend’s space.  “The board said that fight was only fifteen minutes late.  We’ve been here 45.”

                Josh Wilson shrugged and shook his head, eyes gazing fixedly at the top of the escalators.

                “Maybe he had to get through security?  Oh, maybe he brought too big of a water bottle!”  Hector thought.

                Hector received a narrowed-eyed look in response from Josh Wilson, who said, “Security’s only when you get _on_ the plane, dude.”

                ” _Riiiight_ ,” Hector remarked, shaking his head.  “Sorry.  I’m just concerned.  You said Greg didn’t sound good?”

                Josh Wilson shook his head again.  “No, he didn’t.  Didn’t even really sound like Greg.”

                “That’s not good man.  Greg always sounds like Greg.”  Hector’s eyes followed a woman rolling a bag to the exit, her skirt just a smidge too tight and her blouse a smidge too low.  Hector smiled as she went by.  When he looked back up at the top of the escalators, his face lit up.  He patted Josh Wilson on the chest and pointed.  “Greg.”

                Greg walked hurriedly down the moving escalator, a backpack over his right shoulder and a rolling bag carried awkwardly next to him.  He tucked his right hand closely to his body and his clothes were wrinkled from the flight.  He had let his hair grow out a tad in the past few month, the curls on top unkempt, as if his hands had run through them too many times.  The tension in his face underscored his clear exhaustion, his body language at once anxious and desperate for rest.  It was past midnight his time and he had spent the last six, maybe seven hours on a cramped plane.

                The guys’ conversations with Greg over the last couple of months had revealed a different side of Greg than they had seen prior to him getting sober.  He seemed less defensive and more self-assured, like he had already accomplished things that he didn’t think he could.  It seemed like he had finally realized that he wasn’t the piece of shit he always thought he was.

                “There’s Mr. Emory!” Josh Wilson crowed as he strode up to meet him, enveloping Greg in a back-slapping hug.  Hector slipped the rolling bag out of Greg’s left hand and turned to give him a two-armed hug of his own.  He had forgotten how much he missed seeing that guy.  Josh Wilson lifted the packed backpack from Greg’s shoulder.

                “Hey guys,” Greg greeted, a smile on his exhausted face.  “Thanks again for coming to pick me up and for dealing with all of this.”

                “Any time, man.  Really.” Hector assured.  “It’s great to see you.  Looking good, too!  I’m digging the curls.”  Hector reached up to tousle Greg’s hair and Greg ducked out of the way as he always did.

                “Thanks.  The humidity in Atlanta is kind of intense, so I just let it go wild now.”  He shrugged.  “It works out okay.”

                They turned to walk to the parking garage and Josh Wilson looked sidelong at Greg, concern shadowing his face.  “Y’know, I went to go see your dad today and they wouldn’t let me in.  They said family only.  Wouldn’t tell me anything.  How is he?”

                Greg’s smirk disappeared and his face fell into a blank, sad mask.  “Not good,” he muttered, voice flat.  “Worse than before.  I talked to them as soon as I got off the plane.”  He ran his left hand through his hair, displacing multiple curls and wincing as he tucked his right hand tighter against his torso.  “Would you guys mind dropping me off at the hospital?  I need to figure out what’s going on.  I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

                Leaving the atrium, they walked across terminal drop-off driving lanes to the expansive parking garage.  “No problem.  You look like you could use some sleep, though, man.  Call me when you’re done and I’ll come get you,” Hector said.

                Greg’s head snapped to him and he looked both touched and confused.  “I can’t ask you to do that Hector.  I may be there for hours.”  He waved away the attempt to convince him otherwise as they approached Hector’s car, the only car in a long row.  “Don’t worry about me.  I have a lot of experience sleeping in uncomfortable hospital chairs.”  Out of ingrained habit, Greg reached for the door handle with his right hand, flinching and drawing it back quickly as soon as he tried to grasp the handle.  Recovering quickly, he instead reached out with his left.

                “Woah, Greg,” Josh Wilson said, just now noticing Greg’s swollen limb.  “What’s going on there?”  He grabbed Greg’s wrist before he could jerk it away and inspected it closely.  Looking up into Greg’s face with his eyes narrowed, he pressed lightly on the side of his hand.

                “OW!” Greg hissed, snapping his hand out of his grasp.  “Knock it off. It’s nothing.”

                Hector grabbed the arm as well, pulling it up to his face.  “Doesn’t look like nothing to me.  Definitely looks like something.”

                “You should get that looked at, bro,” Josh Wilson agreed, nodding.  “What happened?”

                “Long story,” Greg said, sighing and, opening the door with his left hand, slid into the front passenger seat.  “Let’s just get going.”

                Josh Wilson stopped the door from closing as he and Hector leaned over the frame.  “This isn’t like that time in junior high when you got a concussion playing baseball and didn’t tell anyone, is it?” he asked.

                “This is nothing like that,” Greg answered.

                “This is exactly like that,” Hector assured.

                “Look, guys, we’re going to a _hospital_.  There are _doctors_ at _hospitals_.  I’ll get it looked at there.”

                Hector and Josh Wilson shared a disbelieving look.  Greg sighed heavily, scrubbing at his eyes.  “Guys, c’mon.  I just want to see my dad,” he breathed.

                The guys both sighed and climbed in.

*********

                Neither Hector nor Josh Wilson felt right just dropping Greg off at the hospital doors, but his assurances that he would get his hand looked at by an actual, real-life, licensed-and-everything, medical professional had convinced them.

                Greg had texted Josh once more during the ride from the airport and Josh had once more not responded.  Hector had exchanged a dark look in the rear-view mirror with Josh Wilson.  They guys had heard all about the last conversation between Greg and Chan, at least from Chan’s point of view.  They knew full well why Josh Chan wasn’t responding to Greg now: Chan was still angry.

                Growing up, Greg and Chan had been inseparable despite having diametrically opposed personalities: Josh’s bright and upbeat, Greg’s dark and sarcastic.  Josh would make sure Greg was invited to all the best parties and didn’t take things too seriously and Greg would keep Josh grounded and passing his classes.  This dynamic changed in college when Josh could go away to school and Greg couldn’t.  That didn’t sit well with either friend.  Greg hated being at home and Josh resented his poor grades without Greg’s presence.  And boy, they could both hold grudges like nobody’s business.

                Still, they had been inseparable even then, until about eighteen months ago when Rebecca Bunch came to town.

                Both Hector and Josh Wilson had expected to find Greg at the bottom of a bottle following Josh’s revelation about sleeping with Rebecca, especially coming so close to the start of Greg’s recovery.  Josh Wilson had been pretty impressed with Greg’s decision to move past it and forgive Chan, but it struck him that there were some deep-seated emotions that Greg did not address.  When Greg left so suddenly for Atlanta, Josh Chan realized somewhat quickly that Greg, ever the protector of Josh’s ego to others, had put that behind him as well.  Greg put himself first for once, and that meant not having Chan’s back.

                Ever since Rebecca Bunch had come to town, Chan had been distracted and too busy bathing in her adoration and pursuit to consider Greg’s take on the situation.  Josh Wilson was still upset with Josh hooking up with Rebecca when he knew Greg still had feelings for her.  And if that was judge-y, well then good.

                Josh Wilson moved to the front seat when Greg left the car, thanking them again and waving.  Hector’s voice interrupted his thoughts as they watched Greg jog through the hospital doors.  “Josh isn’t going to return his calls, is he?”

                “Nope,” Josh Wilson spat.  “He’s not.”

                Hector shook his head, that muscle in his jaw going.  “Greg could really use his best friend right now.”

                “Yep,” Josh Wilson responded, lips popping out the “p”.

                “That’s shitty man.  What Greg said to him on the phone was shitty,” Josh Wilson nodded in agreement, “but Greg’s dad is sick.  Like, really sick.  That’s more important.”

                “Yep,” Josh Wilson said, again with a pop.

                “So what do we do with those two, WhiJo?”

                “Don’t know, Hec,” Josh Wilson intoned.  “Just don’t know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has left kudos or comments! It's so nice to hear people are connecting with this story. Please enjoy this chapter!

      Hector sucked at mornings.  His surfing trainer said that he needed to get up earlier to catch the best waves, but he still couldn’t do it no matter how many alarm clocks he used.  His mom woke him up at 9:00 a.m. like he had asked, and then again at 9:30.  And 10:00.  And finally 10:30, when she threw up her arms and, completely out of patience, kicked his bed and pelted him with dirty laundry from his floor. 

      Once vaguely conscious, a quick check of his phone and a simple text to White Josh had confirmed that Greg had not reached out to either one of them.  Shit.  A quiet Greg was not a good Greg.  Hector pulled himself out of bed and did a quick sniff-test of his boxers.  They failed, so he dragged himself across the room and grabbed a clean pair from his drawer.  He slipped on his least disgusting set of board shorts and a t-shirt, and stumbled his way to his car, squinting against the bright sun.

      His drive to the hospital had been quick, even with a brief stop at In-and-Out Burger to grab breakfast.  Or lunch?  Whatever it was.

      The sharp tang of disinfectant, sterility and that combination of scents reserved only for hospitals assaulted Hector’s nose as he walked through the sliding doors.  The information desk pointed him in the direction of the ICU and Hector’s heart fell.  Shit.  The ICU was also not good.

      When the elevator doors opened on the ICU floor, Hector was surprised to find that his feet stayed rooted to the spot.  He had this weird, tight feeling in his throat: kind of like he was going to throw up, but not.  Hector had always hated hospitals, and new things, and bad situations that he couldn’t get out of with just his charm and a smile.  This situation was all of those.

      He didn’t know how to do these things.  He felt paralyzed and insufficient, wholly unprepared for the situation in front of him.  A nurse passed by the open doors of the elevator, Hector still rooted inside.  The nurse stopped, his cobalt blue scrubs decorated with small red horses, and tilted his head to the side, gazing in confusion at Hector’s lack of movement.  He raised one bushy blond eyebrow. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

      “Nope.  I’m good.  I’m definitely good!” Hector blurted as the elevator doors closed in front of him.  The elevator didn’t move, so neither did he.  He reached out to press the lobby button, but then thought better of it.  He stared imploringly at the brushed steel of the inside of the elevator, first looking at the walls, then the ceiling, the floor, and then finally the inside of the doors again.  “What should I do?” he whispered.  “Tell me what to do.”

      Surprisingly, the elevator stayed silent.

      He reached for his phone to call White Josh, but his hand stopped halfway.  His friend needed support.  Hector needed to help.  Hector was a grown man.  He could handle this.

       _So what if the ICU was where only the really sick people went – like people who were on their way out.  That didn’t mean that Mr. Serrano was …._

      Hector swallowed hard and ended that line of thought.

      Just because Greg didn’t call last night, or this morning, to let them know everything was fine didn’t mean it was bad news or anything.

_Except with Greg that’s usually exactly what it meant._

      He just needed to go see the two guys who were like a brother and a father to him, and he needed to keep his crew together.  He had never been good at taking care of other people.  Despite the fact he was a grown man, he had absolutely _no clue_ how to deal with sick or upset friends, especially those he’s known since he was ten.

_Why the hell isn’t this elevator moving?_   _Has it been on the same floor this entire time?_ As he reached for the button to send the elevator back to the lobby so he could call White Josh, the doors opened.  The blond nurse stood there, his finger on the down button, behind a little, old blue-haired lady in a wheelchair.  He locked eyes with Hector and laughed.  “You sure you don’t need help?  Because you just spent the last four minutes by yourself in an unmoving elevator.”

      “Uh, no,” Hector stammered, stepping out so that the nurse could push the wheelchair inside the elevator.  “I mean, no, I’m not sure.”

      The nurse bent over the woman as he turned her around to face the doors, sliding in front of her once she was positioned.  “Now, Mrs. Mancini,” he cooed.  “Another nurse will be waiting on the third floor to take you back to your room, okay?  I don’t want to see you up here in the ICU again.  Take care of yourself and think of me often.”  The nurse smiled, wide and charming, and Mrs. Mancini coyly smiled back.

      “You know I will, Nurse Rob.  Picturing that smile will keep me warm at night.  A man like you …” she teased.  She turned her head to Hector, still standing uncomfortably outside the elevator watching the exchange.  “And you, kid,” she said to him kindly, “a handsome man like you should grow a pair and go see whoever it is you came here for.  They won’t bite, especially if they’re in here.”

      Nurse Rob laughed and stepped to the side of a still-flabbergasted Hector outside the elevator.  Both returned Mrs. Mancini’s wave as the elevator doors closed, Nurse Rob’s enthusiastic, Hector’s confused.  “She’s right, you know,” Nurse Rob said, stethoscope around his neck and hands on his hips.

      Hector jumped at his voice and stared at him, bewildered.  “About your smile?”

      Nurse Rob grinned, wide.  “Well, yes, about that, too.  But I was referring to them not biting.  Whoever you are here to see.”

      Hector fidgeted again.  “I’m just not good at this stuff.”

      “No one is.  I’d be concerned if you were.  I can guarantee, though, that whoever you’re here to see will appreciate you being here.”  He offered his hand.  “I’m Nurse Rob.”

      Hector took it eagerly, like a life line.  “Hector Martinez.”

      “Well, Hector Martinez, which person are you here to see?  I’m managing most of them.”

      “Two of them, actually,” he admitted.

      The bushy eyebrows raised again.  “Two patients?”

      He shook his head.  “No.  One patient and his son.”

      Nurse Rob’s face darkened.  “Ah.  The Serranos.  You’ll definitely be appreciated then.  Follow me.”  The pair moved past a greeter’s desk and took a left, walking down the tiled, non-descript hallway past a long counter and beyond pale blue curtains.  The staff had shut most of the curtains tight, but a few remained open, revealing whirring and beeping machines and the patients attached to them.  Hector found it surreal and discomforting.  “Mr. Serrano was moved into the ICU very early this morning.  His son insisted on a private room, so we moved him down the hall where it was quieter.”

      Hector heard the information without fully processing it.  His eyes kept darting around the open area of the nurse’s stations trying to find something familiar, and failing.

      Nurse Rob’s voice broke him out of his dark thoughts.  “How do you know Mr. Serrano?”

      “Uh, I grew up with Greg, his son.”

      Nurse Rob nodded.  “Greg hasn’t said if there’s any family we should contact.  He just said he would take care of it.”

      “It’s just the two of them.  Has been for a while,” Hector confirmed as they turned a corner around another nurse’s station.  Marco Serrano’s room came into view, the wide sliding glass doors flung open.  Inside, in clear view of the nurse’s station, lay Greg’s dad in a hospital bed, gray-tinged and impossibly frail.  The oxygen mask over his mouth fogged slightly in time to his shallow breaths.  The same machines he saw in the hallways surrounded him as well, whirring and beeping.  Hector assumed they were monitoring something, but he had no clue what.  He just knew they made Mr. Serrano look small in comparison. _When did Mr. Serrano get so old?_   Hector thought. 

      Next to the bed in a hospital chair sat Greg, left hand folded under his chin, right hand hanging by his side.  He stared forlornly at this father’s face and wore the same clothes Hector had dropped him off in the night before.  His dark stubble served only to highlight the deep circles under his eyes and drawn expression.

      “He hasn’t left his father’s side all night,” Nurse Rob murmured, his hand going to his hips.  “We moved his bags to the corner of the room and out of the way.  He let us look at the hand and wrap it up, but it’s going to need a lot more. He said he punched a cinder block wall.”

      Hector looked at him sharply.  “A brick wall?”

      Nurse Rob shrugged and looked incredulous.  “That’s what he said.  He’s going to need X-rays just to start.”  Hector nodded, but remained silent.  Nurse Rob continued, sighing.  “He’s not listening to me.  Can I trust you to talk to him about the X-rays?” he asked leadingly.

      “Oh.  Yeah.  I’ll do just that,” Hector muttered.  He started forward, but Nurse Rob stopped him with a hand on his arm.

      “Look, this is none of my business, but I saw your friend playing with a chip earlier.  It looked like an AA chip.”

      Hector opened his mouth to respond, but Nurse Rob stopped him.  “I don’t care if it was or if it wasn’t.  I just wanted to let you know that if he’s in recovery, especially if he’s within the first year, _and_ he’s got no family to have his back on this, he’s going to need every friend he’s got.”

      Hector nodded numbly.  He looked from Greg’s face to his dad’s form to the nurse’s station.

      “It’s not good, is it?” Hector asked.

      Nurse Rob shook his head.  “No, it’s not.”

      Everything suddenly clicked into place for Hector in a rare moment of clarity.  The ICU.  The machines.  Greg not calling this morning.  The AA chip. 

      Marco Serrano was not long for this world.

      Hector licked his lips and the apprehension returned.  What the hell did he know about losing a family member?  He lost his dad when he was three and too young to remember anything about him.  White Josh would be so much better at this.  He’d know what to say.  _Hell, even Chan_ … Hector thought, but then stopped.  Chan would suck at this, too, but at least he’d be the smiling, cheerful best friend.  _Where the hell was he?_

      His hesitation must have been clear to Nurse Rob because he put a comforting hand on Hector’s shoulder.  “Again,” he reminded Hector, “he’s not going to bite.”

      Hector’s eyes went wide and he furrowed his brow.  “I kind of wish he would,” he admitted.  “I know Angry Greg.  Angry Greg I can deal with.  Sad Greg, though.  Well, Sad Greg I always got drunk.”  Hector winced.  “Not really an option anymore.”

      “He’ll appreciate you being here.”  With one more friendly pat on the shoulder, Nurse Rob left Hector standing in the hallway, staring.  Their voices had been quiet and Greg had not heard them despite being only yards away, a testament to how deeply Greg had focused on the grave situation.

      Hector stared at his friend.  Greg had shifted in his seat and scrubbed his face with his good hand, breathing deeply.  He glanced at the phone as if expecting a call or a text and, disappointed, tossed it aside.  He returned to his vigil, searching his father’s face.  Hector took a step towards the room but stopped when he saw tears shining in Greg’s eyes.

      “Shit,” Hector muttered under his breath as he forced himself forward.  He had never seen Greg cry before.  Chan?  Sure.  He even saw White Josh cry.  But Greg?  How can Hector know what to do when he’d never seen him cry before?  What did being there for someone even _mean_?  “Shit,” he muttered again as he took another step.  “Shit, shit, shit,” he said in time with each foot hitting the floor, which turned quickly into a desperate “fuck, fuck, fuck!” as he reached the room.

      Hector raised his hand to knock on the door frame, but Greg looked up at him before it landed.  Both men raised their eyebrows in surprise and Greg hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his good hand.  “Oh, hey, Hector,” he asked with forced lightness, clearly attempting to hide his upset.  Hector stood, mouth gaping as surprise, apprehension, and awkwardness warred over Greg’s face.  “What are you doing here?” Greg asked.

      Words left Hector’s mouth before he had a chance to think about them.  “Hospitals suck,” he blurted.  “I don’t like them.”

      The statements hung heavily in the air as Greg blinked blearily.  It was such a direct and truthful over simplification of the situation, something so truly Hector, that Greg had only one reaction.

      For the first time in over 24 hours, Greg smirked and laughed, the cloud around him clearing briefly and the awkwardness dissipating.  “Hospitals do suck, man,” Greg insisted and crossed the room.  Hector pulled him into a hug.  “Thanks for coming,” Greg said into Hector’s shoulder.

      Hector knew what to do then.  He held on tight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Many thanks to those who have left comments and/or kudos. It does a heart good. Some of you have wondered when Rebecca entered this story. Well, this chapter should answer that question. Thanks!

Rebecca Bunch sat in her cubicle, nearly buried in the stack of casefiles on her desk.  She had a brief due for the Cunningham matter and Darryl had just bopped his mustached-self over to let her know that she would be taking over their biggest client because she was “our all-star!”

                No problem.  She could offload the brief to Paula or one of the other paralegals, and she could still wine and dine a client like nobody’s business.  It’d be fine.  It’d be good, even.  But right now, she lingered in paradise, at least on her monitor.

                Impossibly lush volcanic islands nestled in stunning teal-blue waters filled her vision.  She pictured herself there in a sky-blue bikini that just happened to match her eyes, walking hand-in-hand with a certain strapping Filipino man.  She giggled.  “Love kernels,” she sang under her breath.  “Slurp slurp.”

                Paula’s sharp, “Cookie!  Rebecca!” interrupted her daydream and she physically shook herself to refocus.  Paula stood over her over the common counter that separated their workspaces.  She looked impatient, as if she had been trying to get Rebecca’s attention for a while.

                “Whatcha doing?” Paula asked slyly, a smile quirking up a corner of her mouth.  “Because I know it’s not the Cunningham brief.”

                “What?” Rebecca exclaimed, her eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights.  “No, of course it’s the Cunningham …”

Paula’s cocked eyebrow and incredulous look stopped her.  “Rebecca, you were singing.   _No one_ sings when writing a legal brief.”

“I was not singing!” Rebecca squeaked.

Paula laughed and nodded.  “Oh, yes you were.  It sounded like _Lemonade_.”

“No!  No, it didn’t.  It sounded nothing like that!”  Paula shot Rebecca another disbelieving look.  “I mean, it was loosely inspired by Beyonce’s _Lemonade_ , but it didn’t _sound_ like …”

“HA!” Paula laughed triumphantly.  “So you _admit_ you were singing!”

Rebecca opened her mouth, mind flailing for an angle, an explanation, a story that Paula would buy, but came up empty.  Instead, she settled for sincere flattery.  “Oh, you’re good Paula.  Real good.  I sometimes forget how good you are.”

Paula smiled.  “And that, my dear, is why I’m in law school.  So, if you’re not working on the brief, whatcha doing?”

Rebecca whipped her monitor around to show Paula the jagged islands, the impossibly blue water and the white sand beaches.  “Okay,” Rebecca explained.  “There are no shenanigans involved, so this technically does not violate the terms of our agreement.”

Paula nodded suspiciously.

“So I was thinking,” Rebecca rolled her eyes, “about Josh.”

Paula smirked.  “And …”

“And I did a little research into his family.” Paula looked intrigued, the bright light from the windows enhancing the spark in her blue eyes.  “And by research, I mean I traced his family lineage back four generations.”

“Woah, Rebecca,” Paula warned, holding her hands up.  “This sounds like hijinks and our contract clearly states …”

“No, no, it’s okay.  It was all on Ancestry.com.  Nothing sneaky involved, I promise.  Josh’s second cousin is really into this stuff and had it all mapped out.  We’re friends on Facebook now.”

“Rebecca …” Paula pleaded.

Rebecca ignored her.  “Anyway, I found out that Josh’s mom and dad are from the capital city, Manila, but Josh’s dad’s grandfather – ergo Josh’s great-grandfather – is from this tiny little town called El Nido,” she held up a her finger, letting Paula know she was getting to the point, “which, means, literally, The Nest!”  she squealed in joy.  “I mean, there’s nothing more perfect for a cute romantic getaway, just the two of us, right?  The family connection?  The symbolic name?  Oh!  And right here,” she gestured to the pictures now on a slideshow in her screen, “look at these beaches!  I mean, it is literally paradise on earth!”

“Rebecca,” Paula interrupted, gathering herself, “we need to …”

Rebecca bowled right through.  “Josh mentioned last week that he was thinking of visiting the Philippines to meet some cousins he never knew and _this_ would be a perfect chance!”

“Rebecca!” Paula had to raise her voice to be heard over Rebecca’s machinations.  “We _need_ to discuss the Cunningham brief.  There’s heavy research involved, and we only have one week to research and draft.  I need to know what arguments you want to focus on.”

“Oh.”  Rebecca deflated, plopping back down in her seat and swiveling the monitor around, pouting heavily.  “Does this mean you don’t want to search for plane tickets with me?”

“Sure does,” Paula nodded.  She gestured vaguely at Rebecca’s presence.  “Whatever it is you have cooking up in that brilliant brain of yours, I’m not going for it.  I just need to know about the Cunningham brief.”

“Okay,” Rebecca pouted again, propping her chin against her arm, and rolling her eyes dramatically in thought.  “Whatever you think is the best argument, Paula, go for it.  I trust your judgment.”  She waved her hand dismissively, as if that settled the matter.

“Well,” Paula proudly only let a hint of her impatience enter her voice, “you’re the attorney of record.  You’re going to have to sign it.”  _And the last time I signed something as an attorney, I almost lost the law license I haven’t gotten yet_ , Paula thought.“I need an _attorney’s_ go ahead.  I was thinking that our strongest argument isn’t the municipal tax issue, but the land use problem.”

Paula smiled as the rhetoric piqued Rebecca’s interest and she looked up from her Google image search.  “You think?” she said, pulling the file out of the middle of a stack of files.  “The taxes seem like a slam dunk.”

Paula leaned over the shared counter.  “Not in the case law, actually.  There’s a restrictive covenant there that would require some things that Mrs. Cunningham doesn’t want.  I’ll write the brief and get it on your desk.”  Paula slipped back down into her chair, her fingers already poised over her keyboard to start filling in the brief, when Darryl’s head suddenly appeared between them. 

“Hey guys.  How’s it going?”  Both Rebecca and Paula answered with non-committal grunts.  “So, have you guys seen Josh?” Both women’s heads shot up.  “I mean Josh Wilson.  White Josh.  My Josh,” Darryl stammered.  “He was supposed to meet me here for lunch, but I haven’t seen him.  It’s not like him to be late and not let me know.”

Rebecca and Paula shook their heads simultaneously.  Darryl pouted and, looking sad, turned and walked off towards the elevators, searching his blank phone screen as the women watched him go.  “Oh!  Oh!” Rebecca exclaimed, animatedly.  “I just figured it out!”

“The land use thing?” Paula inquired.

“No!” Rebecca beamed.  “Which Muppet Darryl looks like!”

Paula leaned back in her chair to consider Darryl, who was pacing in front of the elevators.  She tilted her head to the side.  “I always considered him like Beaker with a mustache?”

“Close!” Rebecca said, touching her temple.  “He’s a red-headed Guy Smiley!”

Paula’s face lit up with dawning clarity.  “Oh my God, you’re right.” She nodded.  The longer she stared at Darryl, the clearer it became.  “You’re totally right.  Nice catch, Cookie!”

“Thanks, Mama.”

                They both leaned back in their chairs when Darryl’s phone rang loudly, and he snapped it up to his ear, his conversation loud enough for his half to carry over. “Josh, babe, is everything alright?  What did Hector say?”

                Rebecca and Paula shared a confused look as White Josh spoke on the other end.  “Oh, that’s terrible,” Darryl responded.  “That poor guy.  Has he checked in to the hotel yet?”  Darryl’s long legs carried him quickly towards his office, oblivious to the attention Rebecca and Paula were giving him.

                “What’s going on?” Paula hissed.  Rebecca shrugged, wide-eyed and curious.

                “No, no, don’t worry about lunch,” Darryl continued.  “I’ll grab something.  Greg and his dad are more important right now.”

                Rebecca and Paula’s eyes snapped to one another in shock.  _Greg?  Like, Greg Serrano?_

                Rebecca had told Paula that she hadn’t thought of Greg Serrano since she had said goodbye to his ghost in her old apartment, but she had lied.  Although she knew the guys still talked to him, and even that Valencia had received a birthday email from him, he had not reached out to her since that day.  To be fair, in an attempt to fully scrub him from her life, she had not reached out to him, either.  It saddened her to think that he was probably trying to do the same.

                The lack of contact hadn’t worked, at least on her end.  She missed the guy who always seemed to be there when she needed him. She missed the affectionate antagonism.  Once, she saw someone who looked like him at the duck pond, and her heart leapt into her throat.  She had taken two steps forward before she realized that the man’s hair wasn’t dark enough and that the flannel shirt didn’t fit quite right across the shoulders.

                Darryl reached his office and walked in, one hand rubbing his forehead, the other pressing the phone to his ear.  “Yeah,” he remarked, “get him back to the hotel if you can.  When’s the last time the guy slept?”  Darryl closed the door behind him, cutting out Rebecca and Paula.

                The women looked at each other again, blue eyes wide and mouths hanging open.  Greg was back in town and it sounded like something was up.

                A spark entered Rebecca’s eyes that Paula knew all too well.  “Rebecca, no,” Paula said.

                “C’mon, Paula, I have to figure out what’s going on!”  Rebecca stood from her desk, shuffling around her papers.

                Paula stood as well to be face-to-face with Rebecca.  “It’s Greg, Rebecca.  _Greg_ , remember?  The guy you wished would _die_ a few months ago?”

                Rebecca shuffled picked up some files and dumped them on another pile before finding her purse and holding it up triumphantly.  “Something’s going on Paula.  Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

                “No!  I’m not!  What I am curious about is the Cunningham case!”

                Rebecca strode out of her cubicle and jogged to the elevators.  “Call me with any questions.  I’m supposed to meet Josh at Aloha for … uh, lunch!  I’ll let you know what I find out!”  She darted into the elevators just as the doors closed.

                Paula’s shoulders sagged and she fell back into her chair, bouncing slightly.  “I don’t care what you find out.  I can’t stand that guy,” she breathed, deflated.  _At least she didn’t ask me to go along this time_ , she thought ruefully.  _I suppose that’s progress_.  She spun her chair around, sighed, and started researching the Cunningham matter.  It was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, folks! Sorry this took me so long to update. Please leave a review to let me know how you liked it. I take them to heart.

                Josh Wilson considered himself a pretty laid-back guy.  He tried to speak plainly and honestly.  He liked challenging his body, being in love with his goofy-sweet boyfriend, and spending time with his friends, even if only by Skype or Xbox Live and on East coast time.

                His life wasn’t complicated and he wanted to keep it that way, which is why he tried to keep a large personal buffer around Rebecca Bunch and her … whole thing.  She drew Josh in, which wasn’t too surprising.  Getting Greg involved only made sense in retrospect.

                He also didn’t get angry easily.  He supposed he could be judge-y at times, but “judge-y” was just a term people used when they got caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

                Unfortunately, Josh Wilson found himself angry now as he jammed his car into a parking space in front of Aloha Tech.  He took a deep breath in the driver’s seat of his Mazda and stared through the windshield, gripping the steering wheel tightly.  He noticed the way his arms flexed in his tank top and he made a mental note to look into isometric car exercises.

                Then he spotted Josh strolling through the store and his mind snapped back to why he was there.  Sure, Greg had been an asshole to Josh in their last phone conversation, but Josh Wilson suspected that there was more to the story than Chan was telling.  Greg blew past the line of appropriateness, but, as usual, he wasn’t entirely wrong.  Even so, a fight is no excuse to shut Greg out.  Not in this situation. _What the hell, Josh?  Greg has never left you hanging – ever._   Josh Wilson had gotten a call from Hector not too long ago, who sounded uncomfortable but present.  Mr. Serrano was in bad shape.  Greg was in bad shape.

                Josh Wilson strode to the glass doors, threw one open and stormed inside. The smell of poké and the sound of Hawaiian music greeted him.  Even its mellow, waving melodies failed to improve his mood.  Like most weekdays at noon, the store was empty except for Josh stocking shelves of power cords.

                Chan had looked up at the chime when Josh Wilson had come in and had hurried over the corner of the cavernous sales floor.  “Whaaaat?  WhiJo!  What ya doing here, man?” Chan greeted with his huge puppy-dog smile.  He reached in for a bro-hug before he caught his friend’s clouded look.  “I thought you had clients all day today?” he asked, suddenly on edge.

                Josh Wilson stood stiffly, eyes narrowed and posture rigid, muscular arms crossed in front of his chest.  He realized that he was breathing hard and scowling, but at this point, he didn’t care.  He wanted to drag this guy to see Greg right now.  “I did.  I rescheduled them.  There’s some place more important I need to be.”  He uncrossed his arms and attempted to lean casually against one of the A-frames displaying merchandise – electronics cleaning supplies, it looked like. 

                Josh looked confused.  “So you came here to talk to me?  Weird, bro,” he chuckled.

                Josh Wilson snorted in disbelief, throwing his arms up in angry exasperation.  “Dude,” he snapped, shaking his head.

                His tone put Chan on a confused defensive.  “Dude?” Josh asked, “What’s your problem?”

                Josh Wilson threw his hands up again, taking a step towards his friend.  “Really, dude?” he questioned angrily.  “Is this really the way you’re going to play it?”

                Chan’s hackles went up and he stepped up to meet Josh Wilson’s advance, scowling.  “I don’t know what your problem is right now, dude, but you need to _step back_ and remember this is a place of business.”

                _Oh no, Josh._ Josh Wilson thought. _We are not playing that game_.  “Really dude?” he snapped, his hands gesturing to the empty store, the dozens of televisions on the walls playing the latest Marvel movie in crystal-clear, silent unison.  “A place of business?  There is no one here,” he enunciated clearly.  “There is no _business_ being _done!_ ”

                Josh opened his mouth to retort, breathing hard, when the chime from the door rang out again.  Both men glanced at the door.  Chan’s face lightened while Josh Wilson barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.  _Of course.  Of course she shows up._

                Josh Wilson turned to see Rebecca approaching.  He assumed she had just come from work, but she had on a pair of capris and a light tank top.  She looked more like she was heading to the beach than working at a law office.  She had a spark in her clear blue eyes that Josh Wilson never trusted as she strode purposefully to Josh’s side, looping her arm around his.  “Hi Josh!” she chirped, kissing his cheek.  “Hi ChipHunk,” she greeted Josh Wilson.  She looked from one Josh to the other, reading the aggressive faces and took a step back, looking suddenly unsure.  “What’s going on?” she asked.

                “Uh, nothing, Rebecca,” Chan assured, suddenly emboldened by Rebecca’s presence.  Josh Wilson could feel his anger spiking.  Chan’s entire demeanor had changed, his defensiveness draining but his chest puffing out in posturing.  He looked back at Josh Wilson conspiratorially, all but winking at him.  “White Josh was just leaving.  Weren’t you White Josh?”  Chan nodded significantly and raised his eyebrows.

                Rebecca’s sharp eyes caught the move and she furrowed her brows.  “Are you sure?  Because it looked pretty serious.  White Josh, what’s going on?”

                Josh Wilson began to speak, but Chan cut him off.  “Oh, nothing,” Josh said, shaking his head and acting as if nothing was happening.  His eyes widened imploringly and he jerked his head towards the front door.

                Josh Wilson shook his head incredulously, holding Chan’s eye contact.  _No,_ Josh Wilson thought.  Chan had tried to tell him something and Josh Wilson got the message loud and clear.  There was no way in hell he was going to let it happen, though.  _I am not letting him off the hook just so he can get laid in the back room_.

                Suddenly, Josh Wilson’s anger dissipated entirely and it left him feeling empty.  His jaw unclenched and his shoulders sagged and when he shook his head this time, it was from sadness rather than anger.  He rubbed the back of his head with his hand.  “Y’know, Josh,” he began quietly, looking at his own feet.  “I never thought you’d treat a friend like this, even after you two shacked up after Jayma’s wedding.”  Chan looked confused again and Rebecca jerked her head back like she’d been hit.  “I didn’t think you’d treat Greg like this, even after a fight.”

                Josh’s expression changed from confusion to amusement and he laughed.  “WhiJo, Greg knows about me and Rebecca.  Has for a while.”

                The anger streaked back.  Josh Wilson’s head shot up, his back straightened and he scowled.  “This isn’t about you and Rebecca, Josh!  This is about you not returning his calls or texts for TWO DAYS!”  Rebecca blanched, but Josh exploded.

                “Don’t yell at me, WhiJo!  Greg’s the one who said those nasty things.  He’s such an ass, always thinks he knows better.  Goes away and leaves me and everything else because nothing here is _good enough_ for him, just because _he_ never fit in here.”  Josh Wilson breathed heavier, hearing but not believing what Josh said.  Part of him hadn’t believed that Josh had ignored the calls, that there was some other explanation.  _Something_ other than anger, embarrassment, and cluelessness.  He closed his eyes, attempting to center himself and clenched and unclenched his hands.

                    “Then he thinks he has the right to criticize what I do with _my_ life from across the country?  I mean, what the hell?  I’m not the source of his problems and if he wants to apologize, he can do it when _I’m_ good and ...”

                     “HIS DAD’S SICK!” Josh Wilson roared, loud enough that Rebecca jumped back.  She recovered quickly and looked at him as she pieced things together.  He shouldn’t be having the conversation in front of Rebecca.  He didn’t even know if Greg wanted her to know about his dad or that he was in town.  It was hard to forgive how she had used Greg in the past.  In Josh Wilson’s view, that’s not how you treated someone you cared for.  Greg could have reached out to her if he wanted to, and he hadn’t.  Now that she knew, she would want to get involved.

                   “His dad’s been sick for years!  That doesn’t excuse him from being a dick!”

                    Josh Wilson clenched his hands by his side.  “Jesus, Josh!  How DENSE can you be?” he barked.  If directness was the only route Chan was going to understand, then direct Josh Wilson would be. “Greg’s dad is IN THE ICU.  He might be DYING.  Greg’s FLOWN BACK to be with him.”

                    Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth and Josh Wilson swore there were tears in her eyes.  Josh blinked in disbelief and denial.  “No.  No way,” Josh said, shaking his head stiffly.  “No, that’s not possible.  Mr. Serrano’s younger than my parents are.  He can’t be dying.”

                   “Josh, c’mon, man,” Josh Wilson pleaded, even as Rebecca reached across Josh to put a hand on his bare arm.

                   “How’s Greg?” she asked.  He ignored her question, still angry.

                   Josh looked thoughtful and confused, his mind clearly still processing.  “Mr. Serrano is like a second father to me.  I mean, like a dark, sarcastic, kind of weird second father, but still.  He can’t be that sick.”

                  “Where’s Greg now?  Which hospital?”  Rebecca pressed.

                  “Oh no.  You already know too much, Rebecca,” Josh Wilson balked.  “I’m just here to get Josh to the hospital.”  He looked at Josh, brown eyes staring into brown.  “Hector and I have been trying to help.  Greg’s still asking about you though, dude.  You need to get there.”

                  Josh’s expression showed no anger remaining, but it flipped through concerned to panic-stricken, and then into forced nonchalance.  “Hey, uh, y’know, I just can’t make it right now.”  Josh Wilson’s heart dropped into his stomach as Josh looked around to the televisions, where Captain America was doing … something on what seemed like a hundred screens at once.  Their shouting match had drowned out the easy sound of Hawaiian music, but now that Josh Wilson’s could hear it again, it now seemed to mock the entire situation.  He could practically see that same music entering Chan’s head, giving him excuses to not do what he should.  Chan continued.  “I got the store here, and I’m the only one here right now.”  He winced dramatically.  “I can’t leave the store unattended.”  He shrugged as if that decided the issue.

                 Josh Wilson blinked, incredulous.  “Dude.  Lock the store.  Put a sign in the window.”

                “Nah,” Josh squeaked, the panicked look returning before being squashed again.  “I couldn’t do that.  That would be a violation of …” he stammered, “of my sacred duty as Assistant Manager.”  He nodded with finality.

                “Sacred duty?” Rebecca inquired, doubtful.

                 “Yes,” Josh confirmed, nodding.  “I, uh, I took an oath.”

                 White Josh scrubbed his face with both hands.  “Aaaah, man, you have to be kidding me, here.  Call someone to cover, then.  Tell your boss that you have a family emergency.  You’ve been Greg’s best friend since you were _five_.”  He held up one hand, fingers splayed wide.  “This many.  He’s always had your back.”

                 Josh looked torn, panicked and miserable.

                “Remember that time in high school?” Josh Wilson pressed, “Greg got detention for cutting class because he drove you home to pick up your karate gear?”

                 Josh looked like a kicked puppy.  “Yes,” he muttered drearily.

                “Or when he tutored you through that class in college?”

                “Of course,” Chan uttered miserably.

                “Greg really did those things?” Rebecca wondered aloud, touched.

                Josh Wilson’s eyes snapped to hers.  “Yeah.  Despite what comes out of his mouth sometimes, he’s actually a pretty great guy.”  He looked back at Josh.  “C’mon, Josh,” he said.  “This is an all-bros-on-deck scenario.”

                Josh fidgeted where he stood.  “C’mon White Josh.  I’m not good at this type of stuff, dude.  Feelings and stuff.  Especially not with Greg.”  He shuddered and scratched his arms as if he itched.  “But I guess I could stop by today after my shift, or …” he trailed off, looking up towards the ceiling, thinking.  “Ooo! Tomorrow I have off.  I could stop by in the morning, or maybe after my workout in the afternoon.  Or maybe the evening would work better?”  Josh attempted a smile.

                Josh Wilson glared at him, anger and disappointment warring in his chest.  _By the time his shift ends, or his workout is over, he’ll find another excuse_.  “Okay.  Y’know what Josh,” he sighed, disgusted, “never mind.”  He dismissed Josh with a wave of his hand, the other hand on his hip.  He half-turned to go, but his feet stopped him and he turned back to Josh and, _was that relief on Josh’s face?!_   _Oh, hell no_.   “One more question for you, Josh,” he said, tapping his chin with the tips of his fingers.  “Greg’s had your back for over twenty years, man.  For the past two days, he’s reached out to you for help.”  Chan refused to meet his eyes.  _Oh, you’re going to hear this, Josh,_ he thought.  _You’re not going to like it, but you’re going to hear it_.  “Greg never reaches out for help.  Greg bottles it up.  Greg pushes away.  Greg avoids.  He has _never_ reached out for help before.  Yet here he is, reaching out and you’re making excuses.”

                Josh wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “I just don’t feel comfortable …” Josh began.

                “CHRIST, JOSH!  THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU!” he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.  “This is about GREG and the friends he’s supposed to have!”

                This time, Josh physically flinched and Rebecca, hand still covering her mouth and tears in her eyes, remained frozen.

                He shook his head, a bad taste in his mouth.  “Hector and I will be at the hospital,” he spat.  “Call me – or better yet, call _Greg_ – when you pull your head out of your ass.”

                He stalked past the empty cash registers to the door, throwing it open and striding into the bright California sunshine.  He usually loved the sun, but he was so furious that he scowled, shaking his head and balling his fists at his side.  _What the fuck, man_.  _What the actual fuck!_   He whipped open the door to his Mazda and slammed his body inside.  He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his hands shook, the tremors traveling up his arms.  He took two large breaths to calm himself and swallowed past the lump in his throat.  Counting on Josh had been a mistake, it seemed.  It would have to be just Hector and him.  He threw his car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot.  _What the actual fuck_.

*********

                Rebecca trembled as she watched White Josh storm into his car and pull out, too overwhelmed to speak.  The store seemed quiet after he left, the Hawaiian music now mocking instead of relaxing.  Dozens of simultaneously bright explosions filled the televisions on the walls and she recognized the potential for allegory.  _The timing’s a bit off, but the metaphor still works,_ she thought.

                Josh found his voice first.  “Dude!” he began, his voice strong where a few minutes ago it had been completely absent.  “WhiJo was _completely_ out of line, right Rebecca?”

                Rebecca kept on staring at the space where White Josh’s car had been, mind reeling.  She knew she should provide her usual effusive support of Josh’s decision, but her mind kept on clicking back to Greg -- with his dad in the hospital.  Probably in bad shape.  Definitely without his best friend.

                She found she just couldn’t muster the enthusiastic reassurances that Josh needed.  She stared at the parking spot, then Josh’s brown eyes.  Then back to the spot.

                “Rebecca?” Josh asked plaintively.

                Rebecca’s shoulders fell.  She wanted to soothe Josh.  To tell him that he didn’t have to go.  But her mind wouldn’t let her.

                She worried about Greg.  That wasn’t supposed to happen -- she had said goodbye to Greg and his ghost.  So why did she feel like she needed to see him?  Wanted to talk to him?  Needed to make sure he was okay?  It’s not like she cared about him anymore.  Right?

                She took her phone out of her pocket and stared at the blank screen.  Unlike Josh, she had not received a text or call from Greg.  She was surprised with how much that hurt.  A familiar, simple melody floated through her head.  _Oh my God, do I still like him?_

“Rebecca?” Josh asked, nudging her arm with his elbow.  She recognized that he desperately needed her approval and she wanted to give it to him.  She should just reassure her Filipino bro love so they could go into the back room and …

                _Dammit!_ she thought.  She couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t reassure him.  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, expecting to hate herself for what she was about to say.  “Josh, I think you should go to the hospital.”

                Josh’s face fell.  “What?  But, c’mon Rebecca …” He fidgeted even more, shifting from foot to foot.

                _C’mon, Josh_ she thought before interrupting him, “I just think Greg could really use his best friend right now.”

                “But the store!” Josh pointed out, throwing his arms out and gesturing to the large space around him.  “There’s like a lot of expensive merchandise here!  I can’t just leave.”

                She titled her head and looked at him.  _Really, Josh?_ she thought.  _You can’t put that aside for one second?_   She sighed again.  “ChipHunk is right.  Call your boss.  Get someone to cover.  It’s really not that hard, Josh.”  She was surprised how good it felt to tell him what she really thought.

                Josh jerked back as if struck.  “You think so?”  Rebecca nodded, and Josh’s face fell from disappointment to complete terror.  “You’ll come with me, right?  I’ve never even been in an ICU before.”  Rebecca resisted the urge to cradle her forehead in her palm.

                “Yes, I’ll go with you.  Now go call your boss.”  Josh looked somewhat relieved as he nodded and then trotted to the back room to make the call.

                Rebecca whipped out her phone when Josh disappeared into the back room.  She opened up a text from Greg and felt her heart contract when she saw the last message she had received from him, after Jayma’s wedding: “Hey Bunch … I really ducked up.”   _Oh, Greg …_

                She sighed and pursed her lips, starting to type.

                ~~“Hey.  Heard you were in town … ”~~   _Too off point._

                ~~“Hey.  What’s up?”~~   _Too casual_.

                ~~“My condolences about …”~~   _Too formal._

                ~~“What hospital …”~~   _Too presumptuous._

Finally, she settled on:

                “Hey.  Hope you’re okay.  Can I help?”

                Before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed “send”.  She tucked her phone back in her pocket and looked up at the empty store.  The simple musical question entered her mind again:  _Oh my God, do I still like him?_


	7. Chapter 7

               Greg wanted to be angry.  Sitting in the hospital room as his father – the only person who ever had his back – slowly deteriorated in front of his eyes, his restless hands fiddled with anything they could get ahold of.  His keys.  The edge of his father’s bed.  His phone.  The change in his pocket.  His AA chip.

                Hector finally had enough when Greg started wiping smudges off his own water glass, holding it up to the light like he did when he was tending bar.  Hector stood up from his own vigil in the chair in the corner and put a hand on Greg’s arm.  “Greg,” Hector breathed.  “C’mon, man.” 

Greg locked eyes with Hector, the whirring and beeping of the machines and the hospital smell of bleached linens and rubber tubing filled his senses.  Hector gestured Greg back to his chair, and he slumped down into it.

                Greg was exhausted.  His hand fucking _throbbed,_ sharp pain lancing up his arm with every motion, and he wanted to be angry, God dammit.  _Where was the lifeguard at Dad’s pool?  Why the fuck do they let people with breathing problems swim at all?_

_How did they not know he was smoking?  Again? While ON OXYGEN?!_

His thoughts darkened.  _Where the hell was I?  Maybe if I hadn’t moved across the country_ , he chided himself, _Dad wouldn’t be in the ICU right now._

                But every time Greg reached that point in his mental diatribe, his energy vanished.  He could never control what his dad did.  Not since … well, ever.  _This is no different_.

                Greg wanted to be angry, but instead felt a numbing despondency on top of an intense worry that chilled him to the bone.  He was worn out.  He had no more reserves and there was nothing he could do except wait for his dad to get better.  Or not.

                God, he wanted a drink.  That voice in his head, that niggling voice that he’d learned to tamp down, that voice that would tell him everything he couldn’t hear, that voice was back and with a vengeance.

                Right now it told him that he only drank to block emotions, so if he was already numb a drink wouldn’t hurt.

                It told him that they were going to give him something much stronger when they finally got a good look at his hand, so having a whiskey might be doing himself a favor by delaying leaving his father’s side to get treatment.

                 It told him that he had come back to West Covina, which meant he was going to fall back into his old habits anyway, so he may as well get it over with.

                It told him all sorts of rational and logical things that made perfect sense to him.  That’s always when the impulse to drink was the strongest: when it made _sense_.

                He physically shook himself out of his thoughts and brought his hand up to his face.  He got all the way there, too, before the pain lancing up his arm reminded him that he did something seriously wrong to the limb when he punched that wall.  He hissed and grabbed his wrist.

                “You still haven’t gotten that X-rayed?” Josh Wilson’s voice rang out, simultaneously worried and perturbed.

                “WhiJo,” Greg blurted, turning.  “When did you get here?”

                “Couple minutes ago.  You didn’t hear us talking?” he stated, gesturing between himself and Hector. His face reflected concern.

                “No, I didn’t.”

                A machine beeped, and Greg’s head snapped in that direction.  It settled, though, and Greg pivoted back to Josh Wilson, who pulled him into a hug.  Greg thumped his back twice with his good hand.

                Nurse Rob slid into the room to check the machine and scribbled something on his father’s chart.

                Josh Wilson met Greg’s eyes again searchingly, brown on dark hazel green.  “When’s the last time you slept, dude?”

                Greg tried to think back, but it was like swimming through peanut butter: a lot of sticky work with very little payoff.  “I … I don’t know.  Probably ….” he trailed off, thinking.

                “Probably close to 36 hours,” Nurse Rob interjected, snapping the pen back in its holder and looking up.  “The night nurse said he didn’t sleep at all last night.”

                Greg threw the nurse a look.  “Thanks, Nurse Rob.  It’s not like I can’t answer for myself.”

                Nurse Rob shrugged, tapping some IV tubing and inspecting it.

                Josh Wilson gestured towards his hand.  “What about your hand?  Did you get it X-rayed yet?”

                Greg scowled at Nurse Rob to keep him quiet, but it was Hector who ratted him out.  “No, he hasn’t,” Hector reported.  “He won’t listen to me.”

                Josh Wilson sighed and shook his head.  “Greg, c’mon.  This _is_ just like your concussion in junior high.”

                “This is nothing like that!” Greg repeated.  “That was no big deal.  It was just a minor concussion!”

                “No such thing as a minor concussion!” Nurse Rob sang out as he exited the room.

                “You’re not helping, Nurse Rob!” Greg barked at his departing back.  “God, I hate that guy.”

                “Look,” Hector said, interrupting the growing rant, “now that White Josh is here, why don’t I take you down to get an X-ray.  WhiJo can stay with your dad and …”

                Greg ignored him, turning to speak to Josh Wilson.  Hector threw his hands up in frustration, shaking his head.  “Did you talk to Josh?” Greg asked.

                Greg couldn’t place why he wanted to see Josh so badly.  Maybe because his friendly personality would distract Greg from his father’s form lying silent on a hospital bed.  Maybe because Josh always kept Greg from taking himself too seriously.  Maybe because his fucking human birthday cake of a friend tended to brighten up situations and this one had started dark and had only gotten darker.  Maybe because he would get the chance to apologize for being such an ass the last time they talked.  He didn’t quite know, but he thought maybe the niggling voice that was convincing him to drink would be lessened if Josh was there. 

                Josh Wilson nodded in response to Greg’s question, but looked uncomfortable.  “Josh isn’t coming,” Greg volunteered, going for nonchalance but recognizing the tension and disappointment audible in his own tone.

                Josh Wilson’s face tightened in anger while his shoulders fell in defeat.  “You know Josh, man.  He’s … uh, not good …”

                Greg nodded, suddenly feeling antsy.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I know Josh.  I had hoped …” his voice trailed off and he looked down at his shoes.  Josh wasn’t coming.  Greg regretted his words from their last phone call.  He had wanted to talk to Chan about it, to apologize and to explain where he was coming from.  It didn’t look like he’d get that opportunity.  It looked like maybe he had messed up too much this time.  Like maybe being an idiot had finally lost him his oldest friend.

                He had a sudden and controlling urge to move.  He had to get out of the room before this emotion sitting heavily on his chest rose and came out in front of the guys.  “I’m … ah …” he cleared his suddenly tight throat.  “I’m going to go … uh,” he cleared his throat again and looked up but didn’t meet his friends’ eyes.  An idea occurred to him, and he had the perfect excuse to get out of the room.  “I’m going to get this X-rayed.”  He held up his injured hand.  He looked at his father, gray, pale and motionless.  “You guys stay with him, okay?  Call me if anything changes?”

                He all but fled the room without waiting for a response, knocking into a surprised Nurse Rob as he strode down the hallway.

                Hector and Josh Wilson exchanged significant looks as Greg’s form disappeared around the corner. “He’s kind of a mess right now,” Hector observed, worriedly.

                Josh Wilson nodded, brow furrowed and eyes wide.  “Holy cow.  You’re not kidding.”

*********

                She needed to find him.

                Rebecca couldn’t quite understand why, but she didn’t care.  Every fiber of her being _needed_ to get to the hospital.  _Needed_ to see Greg.  That’s why she drove like a bat out of hell, taking Josh from Aloha to the hospital. She _needed_ to make sure Greg was okay. 

At the back of her mind was also that calm, insightful, and sane voice that made an appearance every now and again.  _This isn’t a good idea.  You know that._

                “WOAH, REBECCA! Slow down!” Josh interrupted, leaning forward to brace himself on the dashboard as she slammed on her brakes at a red light.

                Her eyes flicked to Josh’s panicked face.  “It’s a little-known fact that leaning forward when braking actually causes more injuries during accidents because it puts your head and face directly in line of glass that may come _catapulting_ in as a result of any collision.” 

               “What?” Josh sputtered.

              The light turned green and Rebecca slammed on the gas, the sudden momentum throwing Josh against the passenger seat of Rebecca’s Subaru.

               Rebecca sighed, annoyed.  “Josh, I said …”

               “I heard what you said, Rebecca,” Josh snapped.  “But I don’t get why you’re speeding.  I mean, Mr. Serrano isn’t going anywhere, right?  He’ll still be there when we get there.”  He paused before adding, “Right?”

Rebecca rounded on Josh, manic gleam gone but tension and anxiety at the forefront.  “That’s a pretty insensitive thing to say, Josh, given that it took over two hours to get someone to cover your shift at Aloha’s so we could leave.”

             “Hey!” Josh defended.  “Mike got there as soon as he could!”  Rebecca rolled her eyes.  When Josh first talked to Mike, she had had to pull the phone out of Josh’s hand so that she could make Mike understand the urgency of the situation.  “Woah, Bex!” Josh yelped as she swerved around a car pulling out of a street parking space.  “Slow down, please!  What’s wrong with you?”

_Good question_ , she admitted to herself.  _You said goodbye to Greg.  Why so frantic now?_

             “I don’t know!” Rebecca conceded, answering both questions simultaneously.  “Look, Josh, I just have this feeling that Greg’s not doing well.  That he needs his best friend, okay?”

_Do you still care?_ the voice in the back of her head pointed out.

            “What’s with you?” Josh asked, defensive.  “The minute WhiJo mentioned Greg, you got all tense and weird.”

            “No!” Rebecca blurted, answering her internal voice but not Josh.  She glanced over at the man, embarrassed.  “I mean, no, I didn’t Josh.  You did, though.  You got super weird when White Josh mentioned Greg.  You even started screaming.”

            Josh looked guilty and didn’t say anything about that again.  Rebecca counted that as a win.

          “Me, though, I’m just a little worried.  He wouldn’t have flown all the way back across the country if his dad weren’t really sick, right?  Especially during the school semester?”

          “No, I guess not.  Mr. Serrano’s in the hospital a lot, though.  I’m sure it’s nothing.”  He looked at the parked cars whipping by his window.  “It’s probably the same thing it always is and all this hurrying around is a mute point.”

           Rebecca’s hands tightened on the wheel.  She heard him say that phrase wrong multiple times and it Drove. Her. Nuts. Each. Time.  “ _Moot_ point,” she hissed, a dart of impatience ripping through her.

          “What?” Josh asked, bewildered.

           “Not ‘ _mute_ point,’ Josh,” she corrected, articulating each word purposefully.  “’ _Moot_ point.’  The phrase is ‘moot point’ and it’s used when …”

           “Oh, so now you’re correcting my grammar?”

            “Yes!” she declared.  “The phrase means either that the situation is not important or it is open for discussion or …” she trailed off and glanced over at Josh who looked perturbed and flustered.  “Look,” she softened even as she swerved sharply around a double-parked Hyundai, “even if not for Greg, Marco is in the hospital.  He practically helped raise you, right?”

                Josh thought about that for a second.  “Yeah.  But he’s in the hospital a lot, Bex.  I’m sure it’s nothing,” he repeated.

                He gazed out the window again at the afternoon sun beating down on the cars and the people alike.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked at her, his chocolate brown eyes wide and worried.  “I mean, it’s nothing, right?” he pleaded, straightening up and fidgeting in the seat.  “I’m sure he’s fine and Greg is just overreacting and is fine, too.”  He settled down in his seat, scratching his temple with one finger.  “Greg never jokes about his dad, though.  And WhiJo …” he trailed off.  Rebecca could almost hear the gears grinding in his head to find a reason for White Josh’s involvement.  He nodded with finality.  “White Josh probably just had a bad day.  A fight with Darryl, or something.  Greg’s fine.  Mr. Serrano’s fine.  White Josh isn’t really mad at me.”

                Rebecca’s heart dipped and it was silent except for the whoosh of cars falling behind as they zoomed by.  _De-nial ain’t just a river in Egypt._   When Rebecca spoke out loud, she spoke quietly.  “It’s okay to be scared about this, Josh.”

                “What?” he laughed hollowly, sitting up straight and stiffening.  “I’m not scared.  I don’t get scared.  I have, like, so many black belts.”

                Rebecca resisted the urge to slap her forehead with her palm.

                Josh continued, as if a hole had just been poked through a cognitive wall.  “I mean, I’ve never known anyone who died before, or was in the in the ICU or was really sick or whatever.  Well, my grandparents died when I was a kid but they lived in the Philippines and we didn’t get to see them much.  We video chatted every once in a while.  Me, Jayma and Jestinity would video chat them but their internet connection wasn’t that good so the calls would cut out a lot and once it came back on and they had already left the room thinking it wasn’t on anymore and we just kind of stared at their living room wall for like, an hour.  We didn’t even go to their funerals because the flights were like super weird so my parents had their cousins come watch us …”

                “Josh,” Rebecca interrupted, cutting to the heart of the matter.  “Just be there.  That’s all you have to do.”  
               

               “I don’t know.  Greg’s been weird since the whole alcoholic thing and our fight on the phone.  I haven’t talked to him in _weeks_.  To be honest,” he sighed and leaned over, whispering as if he were revealing a huge secret, “that fight wasn’t all Greg’s fault.  I said some mean things, too.”

                Rebecca had assumed that fact, but made a show of his revelation.  Josh leaned back into the seat, fiddling with the seat belt.  “You’ll come up with me, right?” he asked, voice high.  “When we get to the hospital?  To the room?” 

                It had always been her intent to do so.  Josh fading entirely from her consciousness, she pictured herself swooping into the hospital, arms outstretched to provide support to an ailing lover -- she meant ex-lover.  Friend? – like in so many rom-coms.  She could help him through this dramatically, bringing him tea and cookies as he processed what happened, showering her with praise as she comforted the shit out of him.  She would run her fingers through his dark hair, like she used to when they were in bed, Greg sighing softly as he finally relaxed into sleep, the two of them naked and tangled in sheets.  _Settle for him.  Why not just settle for him …_

                She gasped when Josh’s voice brought her painfully back to the present.  “What are you humming?”  She blinked and shook her head.

                “What?  Nothing.  I’m not humming anything.”

                Josh looked confused, but didn’t push.  “Well, we’re here,” he stated.  Some part of her brain had been keyed in enough to guide them to a parking spot outside the hospital.  The building loomed large and prophetic in front of them, its glass façade gleaming in the Southern California sun.

              “So …” Josh led, hope and need covering his face.  “You coming in with me?”

              That rational and wise part of her whispered to her.  _You know you shouldn’t.  Greg hasn’t returned your text.  He hasn’t called.  He hasn’t reached out in any way._ Rebecca pushed that voice down and buried her deep.  She didn’t care if Greg didn’t want to see her.  She needed to see him, so that’s exactly what she planned to do.

*********

               Rebecca’s courage vanished as she maneuvered Josh through the sterile, brightly lit hallways to find the elevator that would take them to the appropriate floor.  As the doors opened onto the hallway of the ICU, she stepped out, guiding Josh by the arm.

             “I just don’t get why hospitals are so confusing,” Josh lamented, shuffling his feet as he came out of the elevator.  Rebecca glanced around, searching for an admin desk or something to point her in the right direction.  She saw something down the hall staffed by a perky blonde and she headed in that direction, nearly dragging Josh behind her.  “I mean, it doesn’t make sense to make it like a maze in here,” Josh continued.  “Why can’t they just make hospitals big, square buildings like offices and stuff so people can go see sick people easily.  Why do they make it so confusing?”

             A deep voice sounded to their right.  “So we can catch the runners before they can get to the doors.”

             Josh whirled around and Rebecca jumped and faced a short blond nurse.  Bushy eyebrows quirked over amused brown eyes at their startled reactions.  The nurse grinned, wearing cobalt blue scrubs with small red horses on them.  He snapped off a pair of latex gloves; he had clearly just exited a patient’s room.  Josh, still puzzling over the meaning of confusing hospital layouts, looked at the man.  “’Runners’?  What do you mean, ‘runners’?”  Josh asked.

             “Y’know,” Nurse Rob deadpanned.  “Crazies.  Or people who are afraid of hospitals.  It’s so we can catch them before they get to the doors.”

             “I’m not afraid of hospitals!” Josh blurted, his voice high-pitched.  Rebecca looked at him and then shook her head slowly.

              Nurse Rob’s eyes narrowed, evaluating.  “Never said you were, man.  It’s the patients we’re most concerned about.”

              “Oh,” Josh muttered, embarrassed.

               Rebecca patted his shoulder.  “We’re here to visit a friend.  Two friends, actually.”

                Nurse Rob tossed his gloves into a biohazard trash can.  “We have restricted visiting hours right now.  If you’re on the list of approved individuals, they can let you in.  If not,” he shrugged lightly.  “Regular visiting hours start up again tomorrow morning.”  He pointed to the desk at the end of the hall.  “They can help you there.”  He turned quickly with a nod and entered the next patient’s room as Rebecca watched him.  The nurse grabbed a chart off the wall.  “Mr. Washington!” he greeted the man in the bed.  “How’s it hanging!”

                The patient’s response was weak, but present.  “Straight up, Nurse Rob.  Straight up!”

                 “Aww, yeah …”

                 Rebecca cocked her head, watching the exchange before remembering Josh and turning around.  He had already walked down the hall, speaking to the curly-haired blonde at the admin desk.  Rebecca couldn’t hear the conversation, but she saw the woman grab a clipboard, review it, nod once and point down a different hallway.  Her brows furrowed as Josh continued speaking, checking the clipboard again.  She shook her head.  As Rebecca got closer, their conversation became audible.  “ … not on the list, Mr. Chan.  I’m sorry.”

                  Josh’s face fell into confusion.  “That doesn’t make sense,” he questioned.  “Can you check again?”

                  The young woman’s eyes ran down the clipboard again and she looked up, grimacing.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chan, but that name isn’t on the list of approved visitors.”

                 “There has to be some mistake,” Rebecca stated, reaching Josh’s side.  “Where did these names come from?”

                 “Mr. Serrano gave us the names on this list, ma’am.”

Josh broke in.  “But Mr. Serrano is pretty sick,” he argued.  “Maybe he forgot.”

                The blonde shook her head.  “Oh, no, no.  Not the patient ‘Mr. Serrano.’  The family member.” She looked down at the clipboard to check the name.  “Mr. Greg Serrano.”

                “That makes no sense,” Rebecca rebutted, impatient to get where she needed to go.  “Josh’s name has got to be on there.”

                 It was the blonde’s turn to look confused.  “Mr. Chan’s name is on there, ma’am.  As is,” she read the clipboard again, “Josh Wilson and Hector Martinez.”

                 “Yours isn’t on there, Bex.”  Josh winced, looking pained.  He took a deep breath.  “You can’t get in right now.”  

                “What?” Rebecca squeaked, deflating.  “But …”   She had to go see Greg.  She needed to know.  Three months ago, he told her he loved her before abandoning her at the airport.  He had to still feel something for her.  She had to find out.  She should just brush past this perky sprite of a woman and storm into Marco Serrano’s room.  Her mind whirred as she surveyed the layout and personnel on this floor.  She would, of course, have to account for the inevitable resistance, and she could only dodge so many nurses before their combined weight would bring her down.

                 She calculated the potential obstacles between her and her goal and ways to neutralize them, imagining dodging around carts, personnel and comatose patients.  She even glanced up to determine where, if any, cameras were located.  _Really_? that wise voice said again.  _Sometimes the path of least resistance is the most effective._  Rebecca sighed, abandoning her plot.

                She would just have to catch up with Greg later.

                Her disappointment must have reflected on her face.  “Hey, don’t worry,” Josh said as he leaned over and gave her a peck on the lips.  “I’ll be okay.  Greg and I have been friends since we were five.  Nothing can beat that, right?”

               “Right!” Rebecca stated automatically, remembering suddenly that this was outwardly about Josh.  “Go be … comforting, I guess?”

               He flashed his blinding smile and turned to walk down the appropriate hallway backwards, still facing her as he moved.  “Will do, Bex!  You get back to work!  I’ll call you later!” he called before he turned, bopping down the hallway with renewed confidence.

               Rebecca turned woodenly from the desk, partly stumbling down the hallway.  She felt empty, somehow, as all of her rush and her adrenaline to get to the hospital to see Greg had been stymied by a little ink on a piece of paper.  She looked around at the patients, all of them severely ill and wondered for the first time just how bad Marco Serrano was and how Greg was really handling it all.  It was only the middle of his first semester, right?  What about school?  Would he have to take a leave of absence just after he started?

              She felt immense relief when the elevator doors opened the minute she touched the button, and she shuffled inside.  She punched the button to take her down to the first floor, taking out her phone just as the elevator doors closed.  No call from Greg.  No email from Greg.  No response from Greg to her earlier text message.  She sighed.

              The elevator door opened and she walked out on auto-pilot, opening another text to Greg and preparing another message.  “Hey,” she began to type, brow furrowing as she concentrated on the screen and tried to get the language just right.  “Hope everything …”

            She barely noticed a figure rushing around the corner breaking into a jog to catch the open elevator doors.  The man clearly hadn’t noticed her, either, as he smacked into her with such force that she should have fallen backwards onto the marble floor of the hallway.  She would have, too, if one of his hands hadn’t grabbed her arm and a casted forearm hadn’t wrapped around her opposite shoulder to keep her upright in what turned out to be an awkward pseudo-hug.

            “I’m so sorry.  Are you okay?” the man asked and Rebecca’s head snapped up at the sound his voice, his hand still a steadying presence on her arm even if his casted limb had been tucked back against his torso.

            Rebecca looked up into a very familiar pair of green-hazel eyes.

            Greg, shocked and surprised, jumped back from Rebecca as if he just burned himself.  “Rebecca?” Greg said, sounding both distressed and … maybe hopeful?

           “Greg!” Rebecca stammered.  “Uh, hi.”

           They stood in silence for seconds that stretched out, people bustling around them.  The green polo shirt he wore brought out his eyes and his messy curls fell over his forehead in a way that made Rebecca want to smooth them.  Otherwise, he looked like hell.  He stood pale and wan, exhaustion and worry clinging to him like cobwebs.  The heavy, dark stubble shadowing his face only served to highlight the deep circles under his eyes.  He looked – and frankly, smelled – like he hadn’t slept or showered in longer than he should have.  The bright red cast on his forearm and hand did nothing to add brightness to the terrible situation.

           Rebecca reluctantly broke eye contact, Greg’s look of longing dismay imprinting itself on her brain.  “Uh, so what happened to your arm?” she asked, gesturing to the cast.  It immobilized his wrist and the last three of his fingers, leaving only his thumb and pointer finger free.

           “Oh, this old thing,” he joked, a half-smirk on his full lips and a ghost of the old twinkle in his eye.  “ _Tried_ to punch the hell of out of a wall.  Didn’t work out as well this time.”

           Just like that, the fell into their old banter.

          “Yeah,” Rebecca teased.  “I hear walls won’t take the second punch lying down.”

          Greg smiled, some of the haze lifting.  “No, they sure won’t.”  He shook his head slowly.  “Especially when they are cinderblock and not drywall.  I fought the wall …” he trailed off.

           “And the wall won?” she finished for him.  She surprised herself with the amount of happiness that flowed through her at the reappearance of his smile.  God, she missed this.  She missed their banter.  She missed making him laugh and him making her laugh.  She opened her mouth, eager to keep the conversation alive.  “Maybe you should take classes for self-defense against walls, doors, and other stationary architectural features.  I hear karate is good for that.”

           She had intended to continue their playful verbal sparring and maybe to give him a break from the emotion clearly weighing on him.  Instead, his smile disappeared under exhaustion again and he seemed struck by her comment.  _Of course_ , she thought.  She had just reminded him of the third side in their triangle: Josh.

            He blinked twice and his expression fell into a blank, sad mask that looked out-of-place on his usually expressive face.  Greg always had an intensity about him and his face showed nothing of that.  His shoulders sagged deeper as he looked to the floor.  Just like that, their moment was gone.  “Well,” he muttered, “we can’t all be Josh Chan.”

          He pushed past her towards the elevator, punching the button with his casted hand before hissing in pain.

          “Greg, wait,” she pleaded, catching up to him and grabbing his left bicep with her hand.  “Please, that’s not what I meant.”

          Greg looked down at her hand on his arm and Rebecca hoped that the spark of intimacy this produced proved impossible for him to ignore.  His skin was cool to the touch, so unlike when they were together and she had cuddled close to him for warmth, wrapping her arm over his chest and her leg over his thighs.  In front of the elevators she looked up at his face.  The contorted, conflicted look of discomfort and enjoyment was back, but he refused to meet her gaze.  She put her other hand on his arm, trying to get him to look at her.

          “Please don’t do that,” he insisted, looking at her hands rather than at her.  The warmth that had colored his voice just moments ago was gone, replaced with a numb resignation that she had never heard from him before.  She pulled her hands away.

         The elevator doors opened and he stepped in.  She made to follow but he held up a hand to stop her.  He looked at her then, his eyes reflecting sadness.  There was a grief there that he was trying to manage, but he didn’t quite know how.  _What was the grief for, though?_ she asked herself.  _His dad?  Himself?_   The questions scared her.

         “Greg, please …” She moved to hold the elevator doors.

         “Don’t, Rebecca,” Greg pleaded, voice flat with little inflection.  “Just … please don’t.”

          The doors closed, breaking their gaze.  She watched the floor numbers light up above the outside of the elevator doors, hit the ICU floor, and then stop.  She could picture Greg turning right out of the elevators, walking past the admin desk and then left down the hallway towards his father’s room, his steps getting heavier the closer he got.

          Rebecca had needed to find him.  She had _needed_ know that he was okay.  She had found him, but he was _not_ okay.

         She was more worried for him now than before.

********

        The elevator doors opened and Greg turned right, walking down the hallway, veering left at the admin desk.  “Dammit,” he thought to himself.  “Dammit, Rebecca.”  He had hoped not to see her.  He hadn’t reached out to her and hadn’t responded to her text.

          He had worked very hard to stay on an even keel these last three months, staying sober while moving away from everything he had ever known.  He struggled to keep his raft underneath him as he transitioned from the surfer-dude lingo to the southern twang. 

          He had succeeded.  He had connected with Barry, who had pulled strings with some landlord friends to get him into a decent apartment on short notice.  He had started classes and had earned some good grades already.  He had even made some friends who didn’t mind hanging out with a guy who couldn’t drink.  It turned out that the east coast snark and cynicism _did_ reach as far south as Atlanta.  Those were his kind of people.

          He did all this sober and by deliberately pushing any thought, feeling or remembrance of Rebecca Bunch as deep as it would go, including his anger at Josh’s decision to move in with her behind his back.  He thought his tamping those emotions down had been successful, but then his anger bubbled over on the phone with Chan a couple weeks ago.

           God, he was such an idiot!  His Dad in the hospital, Rebecca’s text, even the goddamn _streets_ were all messing with his mind, making him yearn for old habits.  He really wanted _a goddamn drink_ , as on the drive from the airport last night they passed bar after familiar bar that reminded Greg of blurry, care-free nights where he could give into that physical yearning of throwing back a shot or the smoky tang of a good whiskey burning its way down his throat to warm his belly.

           Fighting all that was exhausting even without Rebecca in the picture and he had somehow managed to link Rebecca in his mind with his alcohol addiction.  Then he literally ran into her, here in the hospital of all places.  He had looked into her huge, blue eyes and felt her close to him again.  He smelled her body wash, her presence pulling him back into those bright, hazy days of their sex cocoon.  He had to stop himself from pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear in front of the elevators.

           Her hand on his arm, so familiar and welcome, had shot electricity through him, bringing back intense romps in the hay where nothing was said but her eyes never left his and everything was communicated with touches, moans and sighs.

           He couldn’t even look at her at the elevator doors.  One look at her and he was drowning, the raft he had cobbled together to keep him above water disintegrating underneath him.  If he were truly honest with himself -- because why the hell not at this point -- it terrified him.  He looked at her and saw all of his progress falling out from underneath him.  _Jesus, Rebecca_ , he thought.  _Why can’t you let me break free?_

           He rounded the nurse’s station, taking the turn too quickly and pushing off the wall with his good hand to avoid a bruised shoulder.  Nurse Rob noticed and flagged him down.  “Mr. Serrano,” he greeted politely, his gaze inspecting Greg’s every move.  “How are you doing?  You look … off.  How’s the hand?”  The man’s eyes flicked to the cast.

          Greg looked at the nurse, to the obnoxious red cast, and back again.  “Broken,” Greg shrugged.  “Two metacarpals.  Doctor had to realign them.”

          “Yowch,” he empathized.  “No wonder you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

          “You don’t know the half of it.”  Greg chuckled darkly and put a hand to his forehead, surprised to find his face flushed.  “Look, man, I just want to sit down for a while.”

           “Are you okay?  Can I get you some water or something?”  Nurse Rob tried to guide Greg to a nearby chair, but Greg shook him off.

           “No, I’m fine.  Just … just let me know how my dad is, okay?  Any change since I left?”

            Nurse Rob sighed.  “We’ll compromise.  You have a seat right here,” he gestured to the chair, “and I’ll go find Dr. Robinson.  She wanted to talk to you anyway.”  Greg nodded and sat down heavily, staring down the hallway to his dad’s room.  He could see Hector pacing outside the room, sending intense glances in his direction.  He could see WhiJo staring intensely at something out of Greg’s view in the corner of his dad’s room.

            From this angle, Greg couldn’t see his father, but could plainly remember how his father looked when he left to get his hand treated: pale and sunken with more tubes than usual in his face.  He had looked so _old_ , the gray in his salt-and-pepper hair standing out and the lines around his eyes deeper than ever.  He had been too damn still.

             Greg looked up and saw the doctor, her lab coat over a smart blue dress and white heels.  He hoped that she brought good news, but as she got closer and he saw her face, he figured out that that wasn’t the case.

            What Greg somehow knew the minute he got the call in Atlanta, knew but refused to believe, knew so he punched a wall to mask the thought -- he saw now in the doctor’s face: his dad was never getting out of this hospital.

*********

_Hospitals are creepy. **This**_ _was creepy_ , Josh thought.  The guys had always wanted to go over to the Serrano house for meals as they grew up.  Mr. Serrano made the _best_ food.  It may have been served on a paper plate, but it was tasty.  Josh always heard a lot of screaming at the house when they were younger, but that got better when Mrs. Serrano left.

                Then, senior year of high school, Mr. Serrano started to get sick.  They didn’t go over Greg’s house as often then.  But now Mr. Serrano was sick again.  Like, really sick.  He lay there on the hospital bed, looking beyond pale – like kinda grayish – and tubes were everywhere.  Josh didn’t even _want_ to know where they were all coming from.  The tubes were connected to bags that were hanging from hooks that dropped fluids either into or out of Mr. Serrano.  _Didn’t that hurt?_ Josh asked. But, he guessed not, because Mr. Serrano wasn’t moving.  Like, at all.

                A clear mask covered his mouth and the soft hiss of oxygen seemed so much louder now.  _Wasn’t the mask supposed to fog up more often?_   It looked like Mr. Serrano was barely breathing.  White Josh and Hector stared, uncomfortably expectant, as Josh walked around to Mr. Serrano’s side.  He reached out to touch his hand, but withdrew it quickly when it felt cold to his touch.  It was weird.  Like super weird.  Mr. Serrano was always so present.  Sarcastic, sure, but he always seemed to be around.

                Josh knew it was Mr. Serrano in front of him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out.  It was like the guy in the bed was so the opposite of what he knew as Mr. Serrano that he couldn’t wrap his head around it.  Mr. Serrano was loud and crass.  This person wasn’t.  Josh knew he should be sad, or scared, or something for Mr. Serrano.  But he wasn’t.  He just couldn’t … get that this was the same guy who helped raise him.

                _This is definitely creepy_ , he thought.

                “Guys,” Hector’s voice interrupted his thoughts.  Both Joshes heads twisted around.  “Greg’s back.  Doctor’s talking to him now.”  He gestured to the tall black woman in the lab coat who stood over a seated Greg in the hallway.  Hector shook his head as they came out of the room to stand with him in the hallway.  “Looks like he got his hand casted.”

                Greg sat on the edge of a deep, blue cushioned chair.  The doctor had squatted down next to him.  Her short dark black hair fell into a naturally-textured bob.  Concern consumed her face as she placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder.  “What’s going on?” Josh asked.  “What’s she saying?”

                Greg had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his left hand.  His eyes closed and his mouth tightened, but he nodded, the uncasted index finger and thumb twitching in rhythm to one another.  The doctor asked him one last question, but he shook his head.  Dr. Robinson looked down the hallway and saw them tightly bunched outside the room.  She sighed once and with a  quick jerk of her head gestured them towards her and Greg.  She didn’t have to ask twice.  The guys moved as group, striding down the hallway.  Greg looked up when he heard them, surprise and relief pushing through the distress when he saw Josh with them.  He stood stiffly, the shorter man wrapping him in a hug that Greg eventually returned, Josh’s sudden worry for Greg punching through his emotional block.

                “I didn’t think I’d see you, Josh.  I thought I burned that bridge.”

                “Naw, dude.  I’m sorry, dude.  You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

                They broke apart and Josh stared at Greg.  He looked like hell.  “My dad’s sick, Josh.  Really sick.”

                Josh winced.  “I know, man.  I saw.  I’m sorry, Greg.  I’m really, really sorry.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!

                The sun had just started to set when the guys again tried to convince Greg to check in to his hotel.  Josh Wilson, with Nurse Rob’s help, had finally figured out that Greg hadn’t eaten anything more substantial than hospital pudding and coffee since Atlanta.  Josh Wilson didn’t want to know how long it had been since he’d had proper sleep.  Greg’s stubble had grown thicker and darkened his face.  He had deep circles under his eyes and his hands constantly fidgeted, reaching out to adjust his father’s oxygen mask or to move the coverlet so that he wouldn’t be too chilled.

                Greg was twitchy, too, and every time an odd sound eminated from Marco or the machines, he jumped up from his chair, or halted his pacing or tore his gaze from the window.  He had asked them to leave the room when the doctor came in to give an update on Marco’s condition.  Greg had refused to tell them what the news had been.  He just paced.

                It had taken them three hours to convince him just to leave the room and take a walk around the halls.  They had attempted to get him in involved in a friendly poker game, but had failed.

                Finally, after Hector’s teasing, Josh Wilson’s rationalizing, and Josh pointing out that Greg hadn’t showered in two days and it showed, Greg seemed to shake out of whatever was happening in his head and look down at himself, as if it suddenly dawned on him that he’d been wearing the same clothes for two days.  “C’mon, man.  You stink,” Josh blurted.  “Not like post-workout sweaty stink, but about half that.  At least go back to get a shower.”

                Hector chimed in.  “Yeah.  You could use a good shave, too, man.  You kind of look like a Chia pet.”

                Josh Wilson nodded.  “Although growing that much beard in two days is actually hella-impressive.”

                Greg half-smiled and ran his palms over his cheeks, considering.  His eyes flicked to his dad and he shook his head.  “Look, I really appreciate you guys being here, but you don’t have to stay.  It’s getting late.  Head home.  I’ll call you if anything changes.”  Greg moved to take a seat, sinking back into the uncomfortable hospital chair.  The other three men stood up from the poker table cobbled together with a side table and the seat of another chair.  They looked at one another.

                “Yeah, no,” Josh Wilson rejected the idea. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.  I do think you should check-in, huh?”  His voice raised playfully.  “Maybe get some food?  Some sleep before you keel over?”

                “A shower,” Josh said again, making a disgusted face while nodding.  “Seriously, man.  We’ll even go back to the hotel with you.”

                “Yeah,” Hector agreed.  “But we won’t, y’know shower with you.”  He made a face while the other two men dramatically shook their heads.

                Greg smiled once and shook his head.  “You guys go ahead.  I don’t want to leave Dad alone.”

                “Nurse Rob will spend extra time with him -- won’t you Nurse Rob?” Josh called down the hallway, waving to the man.  Nurse Rob waved back, confused.  “Because, seriously man,” Josh continued, voice lighter and teasing.  “I’m starting to question your personal hygiene regimen.”

                Greg chuckled.  “C’mon, guys.  It’s not that bad.”

                Hector joined in at Josh’s prompting nod.  “No man, it’s like …” he stammered.  Josh’s eyes widened warningly.  “like … do they believe in washing clothes in Atlanta?  Do they even have washing machines in Atlanta at all?”

                “What?  Of course they have washing machines in Atlanta.  You’re over-reacting,” Greg defended.  “It’s just really humid there …” he trailed off.

                “Y’know what else is really humid?”  All four men jumped and turned around.  Nurse Rob stood in the doorway, a pleased look on his face.  “A shower.  A shower is really humid.  Go get one.  I’ll keep an extra close eye on your dad while I try to air out the funk you’re leaving behind.”

                “It’s not that _bad_ ,” Greg protested, annoyed.

                “Mr. Serrano, at this point I’d tell you that you smelled like a sewer rat if it would get you out of here for a few hours.”  He softened, looking Greg in the eye.  “I’ll call immediately if anything changes.”

                Greg sighed, looking around the room.  “Yeah.  Okay, fine.”

                Josh Wilson grinned and nodded.  Chan high-fived Hector, who whooped in triumph.  In spite of everything, Greg smiled.  “Okay, okay,” he said lightly protested.  “What is this, high school all over again?  Just give me a second.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

                The guys exited the room, giving Greg the privacy he requested.  Nurse Rob walked into another patient’s room.  From the hallway, the guys saw Greg say something to his father, putting his hand on his arm.  He stood there watching over him for a second before withdrawing his hand and sighing.  He scratched at the stubble on his cheek and itched his nose.  Promising to be back soon, he grabbed his luggage which had been stashed in the corner of the room.  His hand throbbed, he was exhausted, and he stank.  He looked forward to that shower.

*********

                Greg had to make a few calls on the way back to the hotel, largely to ensure that the retirement home appropriately cared for his father’s macaws.  Apparently, one if his father’s female neighbors had volunteered for care for the birds.  Somehow she already had a key to the apartment.  Greg had decided not to pursue that disturbing line of inquiry. 

Hector, having been at the hospital since that morning, had taken his car home to check in with his mom.  Greg declined his offer to come back to the hotel afterwards.  “I’m good with only two helicopters,” he grinned lightly, referring to the Joshes.  “Thanks for being here, man.”

                After checking in at the hotel, Greg shouldered open the hotel room door and flipped on the light.  The room was clean and no-frills, two queen beds, a small desk-like table and a television on the dresser.  He threw his suitcase down on the bed closest to the bathroom and cracked it open.  He had packed haphazardly and Greg sighed as he dug through the bag looking for his shampoo, razor and toothbrush.

                Josh wandered around the room inspecting things.  “Hotel rooms are super weird, right?” He picked up the small notepad on the table.  “I mean, it’s like home but it’s not like home, y’know?  Who needs only three sheets of paper?” he asked, waving the notepad in the air.  Next, he picked up the prescription bottle that Greg had removed from his pocked and tossed on the bed.  “Dude?  What’s this?”  He read the label.  “Acetaminophen?”

                “That’s what they gave me at the hospital,” Greg muttered, still digging through his suitcase one-handed.  He held up his casted hand without looking up.  “For this.”

                Josh turned the bottle and inspected it further, his mouth screwing up in thought.  “Y’know, a guy at my dojo broke his hand once and he had to get a cast just like that.  Man, he was pissed that he couldn’t spar for like three weeks.  He got something a lot stronger than Advil, though.”

                Greg tossed out a pair of jeans and an old black t-shirt with a blue shark emblazoned on it, smiling fondly at the faithful garment.  “Tylenol,” he grunted.

                “What?” Josh asked.

                “Acetaminophen is Tylenol, not Advil.”

                Josh still looked confused.  “Tylenol is the brand name …” Greg began to explain.  “Y’know what.  Never mind.  Either way,” Greg nodded at to the bottle, “that’s prescription strength.”

                White Josh gestured to the bottle and Josh handed it over.  He inspected it.  “Greg, when I popped my shoulder out doing those hand-stand pushups they gave me this with _codeine_.”

                Josh nodded enthusiastically.  “Yeah!  They gave me Vicodin for my ACL, and that was just a tear.  You have broken bones!”

                Greg gathered up his toiletries and kicked off his shoes.  He sat down on the obnoxious floral comforter and pulled off his socks, wrinkling his nose in disgust before tossing them in the corner.  “They don’t give narcotics to guys like me unless they have no other choice.  I’m okay with that.” 

                Josh’s voice floated out, curious.  “Guys like you?  You mean Italians?”

               Greg froze as he peeled off his shirt and looked at Josh in open disbelief.  After a beat, he laughed, shaking his head.

               WhiJo covered his eyes in embarrassment of Josh’s confusion.  “Not Italians, Josh,” WhiJo said.  “ _Alcoholics_.  They don’t give potentially addictive meds to _alcoholics_.”

               “Oh!”  Josh exclaimed, confident in his rightness.  “But that doesn’t make any sense.  Greg’s not addicted to pills.”  He looked to Greg for validation.  “Right, Greg?”

               Greg laughed shortly and looked incredulous again, throwing his green polo shirt into the same corner as his socks.  “That’s right, Josh.  Just alcohol.”

               WhiJo met Greg’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, Greg,” WhiJo apologized.  “He’s just not very good at being a human.”

               “No problem, man,” Greg gathered his toiletries and headed to the bathroom.  “I’m going to grab a shower and shave.”

*********

 

                By the time he got the damn cover on the cast, soaped up, rinsed down and got out of the shower, his hand throbbed and his feet were so heavy he could barely move them.  He wiped away the condensation on the mirror with a towel and grabbed a razor.  He looked back into the mirror, already fogging again from the residual steam in the room.  He wiped it again and leaned forward to study himself.

                Jesus, he looked like his dad.  The humidity of the shower had caused his hair to go a little wild and the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed deeper.  Was that a gray hair in his stubble?

                An image of his father in the hospital flashed through his mind.  Greg knew the severity of the pneumonia.  He knew his father should be on a respirator right now.  He should be letting machines do the breathing for him.  He should be on more than hail-Mary antibiotics and 100% oxygen.

                But that’s not what his dad wanted.  He had specified as much.

                Greg remembered that conversation with his dad several months ago, shortly after they both moved out of the house.  “So this place has me catching up on some paperwork I should have done a long time ago,” Marco had said over the phone.

                “You live in a retirement home.  How much paperwork could there be?” Greg had asked, still unpacking boxes in his new apartment.

                 "Please, Greg.  It’s a ‘Senior Living Facility’.”

                  Greg had rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, okay, Dad, whatever you say,” he said sarcastically.

                 “But anyway,” Marco continued, “they’re making me fill out some health care forms – living wills, health care proxies and some such nonsense.”

                  In Atlanta, Greg furrowed his brow and sat up on his couch, putting the box to the side.  “You’re not getting sicker, are you, Dad?”

                 “No.  Stop it, Greg.  Stop helicoptering.  I’m fine.  I’m naming you as my healthcare proxy, though.  If something happens, you’re going to have to get your ass out here for a visit.”

                 Greg shook his head, smiling knowingly.  “If you want me to visit, you just have to ask, Dad.”

                 “What?”  Marco laughed.  “No, smart ass.  It’s nice not having you around sometimes, you know.  No one yelling at me to turn down the television.  You should focus on your school and your recovery.  Let these yahoos here at the retirement home worry about me.”

                  “’Senior Living Facility’, remember, Dad?”

                  Marco barked in laughter.  “Got me there, kid.  But seriously, these forms.  Everything will be spelled out and you shouldn’t have any problems in case …”

                  The smile faded from Greg’s face but his tone still teased.  “Yeah, right, Old Man.  Knowing my luck, you’ll never die and I’ll never get that fat inheritance coming to me.”

                  Marco chuckled.  “Yeah.  Right.  Inheritance.  It’s all going to the birds, Greg.  Not a penny is going to you.”

                  “I figured as much, to be honest.”

                   “Just, Greg, with this proxy.  Do me a favor?”

                   Greg didn’t like the tone in his father’s voice.  He tried to lighten it.  “Not if everything’s going to the macaws, I’m not doing you a favor.”

                   Marco’s voice grew serious.  “Greg, son, you remember your Uncle Angelo?”

                  Greg remembered Uncle Angelo very clearly.  His father’s older brother had been a warmly tough man with a booming laugh that would fill a room.  He had died when Greg was a teenager, a few years after his mom left.  He and his father had visited Uncle Angelo as he was dying, hooked up to machines.  The machines breathed for him and kept his heart beating for a week before they finally did the merciful thing and disconnected him.  It had been heart-breaking and demoralizing to watch what had once been a strong man slowly waste away on the machines.  “I remember Uncle Angelo, Dad,” Greg confirmed quietly.

                 “Good,” Marco said.  “I don’t want to be like my brother, son.  If it comes to that, let me have some dignity, okay?”

                 Greg ran his hand through his hair and twitched his fingers against one another.  “Yeah, Dad.  Okay.  I’ll do that.”

                 Greg’s focus came back to the mirror in the hotel room bathroom and he grabbed the hand towel to wipe it again.  His hands shook.

                 His dad was dying.  He knew that.  The doctors knew that.  Greg’s breathing increased again, the steam in the room thickening the air and making it feel like a weight had settled on Greg’s chest.  He leaned against the counter as his head swam a little.  He tried to take a deep breath, but was only partially successful.  He choked and coughed, struggling to maintain some equilibrium.  He took another breath and a knock on the door startled him.  It was WhiJo.  “Greg?  You okay in there?”

                Greg’s heart slowed and he took another breath.  “Fine!” he called.  “Just fine.  Just getting a shave.”  He turned on the faucet.  The guys didn’t know how bad his Dad was.  They had known him for at least fifteen years.  He didn’t want them to worry.

                “Okay,” WhiJo called skeptically from the other side of the door.  “We ordered pizza and wings.  It’s out here when you’re ready!”

                 “Great.  Thanks!” Greg called, spraying shaving cream into his one hand and spreading it on his face.  “I’ll be out in a second.”

*********

                 Once clean-shaven and dressed in a pair of jeans and his black shark t-shirt – he loved that t-shirt – he stepped out to a feast of pizza and wings.  “Aha!” Greg had rejoiced, grabbing a wing and ripping into it and then popping one of the pain pills in his mouth.

                Having the guys there helped.  They laughed at some stupid television show with Josh celebrating every joke Greg made and nudging WhiJo when he got too ranty.  An old _Seinfeld_ episode turned into _Friends_ reruns, which led to a spirited debate on the relative strengths and weaknesses of Chandler and Joey.  About the fifth time Josh declared, “No, dude, Joey _rocked_.  Chandler was too dark, man,” Greg slid back to the top of the bed, leaning upright against the headboard.  He grabbed his tablet from his backpack and flipped it open, intending to email his professors.  He never got that far, though.  Surrounded by the playful bickerings of good friends, he let his head fall back and he closed his eyes.

              Ten minutes later, both Joshes looked back, relieved to see Greg soundly asleep, his tablet in his good hand and his casted hand laying across his stomach.  They looked at each other.   “I’m worried about him, WhiJo,” Josh muttered.  “He hasn’t said anything about his dad or how he broke his hand.”

              Josh Wilson nodded.  “I think one of us should crash here in the extra bed tonight.”

              Josh’s eyes widened in outright panic.  “I don’t know, WhiJo.  I don’t have my toothbrush with me.  I could call Rebecca to bring it over.  She’s sent me like twenty texts asking me how Greg is doing.”

              Josh Wilson looked at him in skeptic disbelief.  _He can’t seriously be suggesting getting Rebecca involved in all this._   “I’m pretty sure Rebecca is the last person Greg needs to see.”

              “Yeah, you’re right,” Josh sighed in relief.  “It’s too far to go get it and come back.  You know how particular I am about my dental hygiene.”  Josh slipped his flip flops on his feet and waved over his shoulder.  “Thanks for staying, man.  I’m sure Greg really appreciates it!” he staged-whispered as he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

              Josh Wilson blinked as he stared at the back of the hotel door.  _I think I just got played_ , he thought to himself.  He looked at Greg’s form, still sound asleep.  Snagging his phone off the entertainment unit, he slid it open and punched in the familiar number.  He ducked into the hallway, propping the door open a sliver behind him.  “Hey Hon,” he said quietly.  “I’m sorry, but it looks like I’m staying here tonight.”

              Darryl’s voice darkened with disappointment.  “Yeah, I thought so.  Rebecca and Paula kicked me out of my office to talk when Rebecca got back from the hospital.  She looked pretty upset.”

              “Wait,” Josh Wilson interrupted him.  “Rebecca came to the hospital?”

               “She dropped off Josh and talked to Greg at the elevators.  She said something about him needing a cast from punching a cinder block wall?”

_A cinder block wall?!_ he thought.  _That must have hurt like hell._   “Yeah, well, I’m hoping things will look better in the morning.”

               “How’s his dad?” Darryl asked.

               Josh Wilson sighed again.  “Not good.  The doctors talk to Greg alone and he’s not sharing.”

                “That’s not good,” Darryl observed.

                “No, it’s not.”  Josh Wilson scratched the back of his head.  He would give everything to be able to go running for a mile or four right now, his feet pounding the pavement as the endorphins ate away the gnawing ache in his gut.

                Darryl broke in again.  “How are you holding up?”  His voice was soft.

                 Josh Wilson paused, thinking.  “I’ve been better, honestly,” he breathed.  He looked at the hotel door, picturing a sleeping Greg inside.  “I’ve known Marco fifteen years.  It’s weird and sad to see him like that.” Josh leaned up against the wall and slid down it until he was squatting on the floor.  “Greg’s like a brother, though, so I’m trying to keep it together because he’s not in a good place.  But it’s still freaking me out.”

                 “I know.  It’s brave what you’re doing, y’know?  Dealing with this stuff.  Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”

                 Josh Wilson smiled at the impossible wisdom of his boyfriend.  “I will.  I just wish Greg would talk to us.”

                  “Maybe Greg is doing the same thing you are, y’know.  Trying not to worry you guys.”

                  “It’s kind of having the opposite effect, to be honest.”

                   “Anything I can do to help?”

                   Josh Wilson sighed again, steadying the phone against his ear with his shoulder.  Down the hall, someone laughed and slammed a hotel room door behind them and he glanced over.  “No.  I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

                   “Alright.  Get some sleep, Hon.”

                    “Love you, Babe,” he replied and hung up.  Josh Wilson slid silently back into the room and tucked a key card in his back pocket.  He pulled a blanket from the foot of Greg’s bed and, flipping it open, spread it over Greg.  He turned out the overhead lights, leaving on a dim floor lamp in the corner.

                    A quick trip to the front desk netted him a toothbrush and deodorant and when he returned, Greg had settled on to his side, mouth wide open and breathing deeply.  Josh Wilson nodded to himself, grabbed another slice of pizza from the open box and turned on the television, flipping through until he found something to watch.  The volume down low, he settled in for what he hoped would be a quiet night.


	9. Chapter 9

When Josh got back to Rebecca’s apartment that night, he shouldered open the door and found two sets of eyes staring at him eagerly: one brown and one blue.  Rebecca and Heather sat at their kitchen with wine glasses in their hands, leaning together with their heads almost touching.    Heather worried a cuticle and Rebecca’s expectant look indicated that she had prepared to go into rapid-fire question mode the minute she saw Josh’s face.  Josh halted in the doorway, pinned under the gazes of the roommates, mouth hanging open.  “Uh … hi?” he said, taking a step forward, uncomfortable with the eyes that continued to follow his every move.

He didn’t even get his jacket off before the questions started.

"What’s going on?”

“How’s Greg’s dad?  He was always a chill dude.”

“How’s Greg?”

“Like, what’s the situation over at the hospital?”

“Where is Greg staying?”

“So … what’s with the red cast?”

Josh held his hands up, eyes wide.  “Girls, girls, hold on a sec.”

“Girl?” Heather monotoned.  “Josh, I haven’t been a girl since I was, like, thirteen years old.”

Rebecca cocked her head in Heather’s direction, brow furrowing.  “What?  You had sex when you were thirteen?”

Heather looked confused and perturbed at the same time.  “Eww, no.  I got my period when I was thirteen, genius.”  Rebecca nodded, the idea making sense.

 Josh stammered.  “Ladies.  Women?  Whatever.  It’s been a long day.  I just want to watch some tv and go to bed.”

“How’s he doing?” Rebecca asked, ignoring Josh’s comment, eyes bright and intense.

Josh shrugged.  “He said he was fine.”  He tried to hold their gazes, but even he found the line lacking.  Eventually he looked at his shuffling feet on the fake hardwood floor.

Rebecca and Heather looked at each other significantly.  “So …” Heather drawled, “was he _actually_ fine, or did he just _say_ he was fine?  Because those are, like, two totally different things.”

“Josh, how’s Marco?” Rebecca asked simultaneously.

“I don’t know!” Josh admitted, tossing his hands up into the air, “Geez, guys, don’t give me the third degree!”  Josh walked over to the table, spun a chair around backwards and straddled it, his forearms and chin leaning on the top of the high back. 

Rebecca put a hand on his arm.  “We’re just asking questions,” she soothed.

“Yeah,” Heather agreed.  “It’s not like the Spanish Inquisition.”

Josh looked incredulous.  “What does that British guy have to do with this?”  Both Rebecca and Heather looked blank.  “Y’know.  That British guy Greg watched all the time.  Monty Python?”

Rebecca barely controlled her wince while Heather stared at Josh in open disbelief.  “Yeah, so I’m going to forget you just said that,” Heather stated while Josh looked affronted, “but you’re going to have to tell me how Marco and Greg are doing.”

“I don’t know, really!” Josh repeated, burying his head in his arms.  “Greg’s not telling us anything the doctors say.  He’s not even really talking, just staring and pacing.”  He looked at Heather and Rebecca, unsure.  “He won’t even play poker with us and he loves poker.  He and White Josh went back at the hotel.”

Rebecca and Heather shared a significant look.  A stab of annoyance shot through Josh at being left out of another non-verbal communication.   “Why do you even care, Heather?  You dumped him and you haven’t even mentioned him once since he left!”

Heather’s pierced eyebrows shot up.  “Look, Josh, just because I don’t talk about the guy doesn’t mean that I want his dad to die or Greg to relapse.”

Josh’s head shot up and a look of panic crossed his face.  “Woah, woah, woah!” he blurted, shaking his head.  “Who said anything about Mr. Serrano dying?  He’s in the hospital, and that’s where people go to get better!”  He nodded as if that settled the matter.

“Josh, Honey,” Rebecca began delicately, “he’s in the ICU.”

“But he’s _not_ going to die!” Josh asserted, his voice high-pitched.  “Greg’s fine, too.  He’s _not_ going to relapse or anything.”  Josh’s voice became louder and more frantic as he spoke.

“Josh …” Rebecca began again, reaching out to him.

“No,” Josh barked.  “You guys are just being dumb and … and … morbid!”  He stood from the table and grabbed the bottle of wine with a flourish.  Storming over to the freezer, he threw some ice in a glass and pointedly looked away from Rebecca and Heather.  He stomped down the hallway to Rebecca’s room and slammed the door behind him.  The shocked women remained at the table, staring at the closed door.

_Oh, this is why I don’t, like, do emotions in other people_ , Heather thought as she looked over to Rebecca.  Rebecca had that look on her face, part determination, part strategic machination, that usually meant she was about to jump with both feet into a situation she shouldn’t. _Uh oh_. 

“I should go visit Greg,” Rebecca decided, shooting to her feet.  “Just to see how he’s doing.”  She picked her keys up from the kitchen counter.  
               

Heather looked at her in disbelief.  “It kinda sounds like White Josh has that covered.  Why don’t you take care of Mr. Shmoopsie-Face Denial in there,” she nodded her head towards Rebecca’s room.  “Seems like Josh isn’t dealing with this whole thing super great.”

Dawning realization flooded across Rebecca’s face.  “Right!  Right.”  She cleared her throat and smoothed down her blouse.  “I can totally do that,” she assured.  “I’m totally a comforting person.”

“Right …” Heather echoed.  “So, Roomie, go be your comforting self.”

Rebecca nodded once and slapped the table authoritatively.  “Okay,” she muttered to herself as she strode back into the hallway.  “This is good.  I can do this.  I’m a comforting person,” she reassured herself as she strode down the hallway.

Heather watched Rebecca disappear into her room with Josh, the door closing quietly behind her.  She could hear their indistinct voices from the kitchen table, a low murmuring that, thankfully, she couldn’t hear in detail.  She just didn’t get why those two were together: there was always so much drama.

Heather’s eyes landed to rest on her phone on the kitchen table, the case an ironic sky blue with a giant yellow smiley face.  She sighed as she looked at it, then rolled her eyes as she picked it up and typed in the security code.  Marco had always been a good guy to her, even that time he caught her half-naked in his kitchen grabbing a late-night snack.  He had taken one look at her, averted his eyes and made a snarky comment about stealing food.  He had screamed across the house to Greg -- still in his bedroom completely naked – about getting food _for_ the girlfriend next time.  Otherwise, Marco had given her space.  It had been super awkward, but kind of sweet at the same time.

Heather sighed in protest as she opened up a text to Greg, rolling her eyes again.  The guy had stomped on her heart but he was regularly clueless and freaked out about things.  She had thought he had turned a corner with his sobriety.  He had seemed more at peace before he left town, even if he still needed to work on handling his emotions.

She hadn’t lied to Josh.  She didn’t want to see him relapse just when he started getting his life together.  Heather sighed again and started texting.  “Hey, Dude.  Sorry to hear your dad’s sick.  Hoping for a full recovery.”  She tapped “send” and put the phone down.  The lit phone stared at her from the table as she tore her eyes from it to the wine glass in front of her.  The blue-white reflected in the pale yellow of the chardonnay and she waited for the screen to fall dark.  She buffed a spot off the glass with her thumb and looked around the room.  Still, the phone remained lit.

“FINE!” she snapped and she snagged her phone, texting Greg again.  “And don’t have a drink, Dude,” she typed.  “Be proud of your sobriety, or something.  You can get through this.”  She stabbed “send” again, putting the phone on the table screen down.  Standing up, she swiped her wine glass from the table, strode over to the sink and dumped the remaining contents down the drain.  _No more chardonnay_ , she thought.  _Wine makes me sappy.  I’m going back to vodka._

She turned off the kitchen light and walked past Rebecca’s room, ignoring the masculine moans that apparently resulted from Rebecca “comforting” Josh.  She shook her head and kept walking, ducking into her room.  She booted up her tablet, put on some music and opened up Tinder.  She could use a good pounding.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, folks! Here's the latest installment of this fic.  
> The contents of this chapter will make the rating go up to mature. I was torn as to whether or not to publish this chapter as it is, as I understand mature content isn't everyone's cup of tea. However, the more and more I edited and worked on it, the more I realized that the mature content was important not only to the plot but also to the characters.  
> As always, I value feedback so please read and leave comments.

                Greg jolted awake, bolting upright when a series of sharp knocks on his hotel room door echoed through the room.  Disoriented, he sat up.  The room was pitch black, the thick privacy curtains blocking out any artificial light pouring in from the outside.  _It must still be the middle of the night._ He still wore the jeans and shark t-shirt he had thrown on after his shower and he lay on top of the thin, garishly floral comforter.  Slightly chilled, he looked over to the other bed in the room.  He fuzzily remembered something about WhiJo staying the night, but the extra bed remained neat and pristine, as it had been when he checked in.  No signs of the pizza and chicken wing dinner remained in the room.  Even the trash cans had stayed empty and unused.

                _Huh.  That’s weird_ , he thought.

                Another series of sharp raps pulled him out of the bed.  He turned the corner to the door too quickly, unsteady on his feet.  He braced himself with his right hand against the wall, felt the corner of the wall against his palm, and pushed off.  He looked at his bare right hand.  _Huh.  That’s weird, too._

                He made it to the door on the third series of knocks, pulling it open with a whoosh and squinting against the bright hallway lights.

                Rebecca stood silhouetted in the hallway.  Greg gasped in surprise, his heart suddenly pounding.  Her eyes were wide and penetrating as she looked up at him through her long eye lashes, her dark eye shadow accentuating the clarity of the bright blue.  Her lips pursed, crimson and full and they quirked up in a soft, wry smile as he studied them.  “Greg?” she whispered pleadingly as she brought a hand up to her cheek and anxiously dipped a pinkie finger between her lips, where it stayed as she chewed slightly on the nail.  Suddenly fully awake, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the finger between her full, red lips.

                “Rebecca …” Greg breathed.

                She wore a curve-hugging dress that showed off her chest, the creamy skin of her breasts highlighted in the heart-shaped neckline.  The cut directed his attention downward to the red fabric covering the curve of her hip.  The tight skirt ended several inches above her knee and miles away from the strappy black stiletto heels she wore.

                His mouth went suddenly dry as she stepped into the room and he moved several paces backwards to give her room.  She closed the door behind her, her eyes longingly never leaving his.  “Rebecca,” he sighed, his voice tight and constrained even has he felt his breathing increase.

                “I’m sorry about what happened at the hospital, Greg,” she uttered, never breaking her intense gaze, her eyes boring into him.  Greg found himself lost in those eyes and couldn’t ignore the effect they were having on his body.  “I saw you there,” she continued as she took another step towards him, smooth and enticing, and he took another step back, “and there was so much I wanted to tell you.  So much I wanted to do.”

                Greg gasped and shook his head, forcing his hands to the side of his own body rather than where they wanted to go: to her face to kiss her, to her hips to pull her against him.  God, he wanted to feel her hips against his again.

                _No_ , he thought.   He couldn’t do this.  His recovery relied on him staying away from old habits.  He needed to get his head together and he couldn’t do that around Rebecca.  He broke his hand, for God’s sake, punching a wall _again_.  He gasped again when he realized his cast had disappeared.  He flexed his right hand, feeling no pain.  She put her hands on his chest and he felt his body react.  God, he still loved her.  He thought he could push her out of his mind and his heart.  He thought he could simply put her on the back burner until he figured out how to be sober.  But he couldn’t.

                Rebecca took another step towards him, but this time he did not step back.  They stood, breathing heavily, within inches of each other.  Her hands warmed his chest through his t-shirt.  He swallowed hard against his dry mouth and she bit her lip and cocked an eyebrow, her piercing blue eyes looking up at him, wanting.  He could feel the heat pouring off her, her vibrancy and passion washing over him.  He scared himself by welcoming it.

                “I miss you, Greg,” she breathed, rising up on her toes so that her lips brushed against his and he could feel her breath on his mouth as she spoke.  “I think about you all the time.”  She licked her lips and his eyes darted down, watching her tongue disappear between her two perfect lips.  “I don’t want you to go back to Atlanta.  I want you to stay here.  In West Covina.”  She kissed him as he stood rigid before her, but he felt familiar stirrings below his belt.  The room was suddenly very warm with her in it.

                “I’ve figured out my feelings, Greg.”  She closed the gap between them and pressed the curves of her body to his, her hands snaking up around his shoulders.  “I want to be with you.”

                Greg gasped again.  He had wanted to hear this from Rebecca for so long.  “What about Josh?” he asked, voice strangled and throat tight even as he felt himself harden.

                “This isn’t about Josh,” she reassured, planting soft kisses up his neck and just below his ear.

                “Everything seems to be about Josh,” he pointed out.

                “Ssshhh …” she hushed, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking them under his waist band, her fingers stroking the skin above his ass.  She knew he loved the intimacy of that gesture.  “This is about you and me, Greg.  No one else figures into that.”  She kissed him again, her mouth opening under his and his resolve bent.  His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him so she could feel him – feel the entire length of him – through their clothes.  “Greg,” she said, breaking the kiss, her breaths making her breasts heave against him.  “I want you to make love to me.”  Her eyes shone in the dim light, wide and seductive.  “Make love to me.”

                Greg’s eyes darted from her gaze to her lips and back again, speechless.  They never called it ‘making love’ when they were together.  She had never _ever_ used the word “love” to refer to whatever they were to the other.

                “That word, Rebecca,” he hissed over his thundering heartbeat, his jeans tight and uncomfortable and he ached to remove them,  “that word has certain connotations …”

                She smiled openly.  “I know, Greg,” she confirmed, her hands traveling from his ass, around his hips, one hand slipping lower to run her fingers along him.  He closed his eyes at the familiar pattern of her fingers wrapping around him.  “I want you to make love to me.  Right now.”  He opened his eyes and looked down into hers, dark with want.

                There were consequences if this happened, he knew.  He’d sacrifice everything he’d wanted: his school, his new life, his career, his sobriety.

                Somewhere, something inside of him broke and for the first time, he kissed her back, her lips somehow soft and firm at once.  His lips met hers feverishly, his hand cupping her face.  She moaned and opened her mouth, her tongue darting against his.

                She tasted like gin, he realized with a jolt: crisp, herby and strong.  God, he missed that taste.  He deepened the kiss, tasting her and relishing what he found there.  Without breaking apart, her hands found the fly to his jeans just as he unzipped the back of her tight red dress, which pooled on the ground next to his clothing.  He stepped up to her, kissing her again, his hands reaching around to unclasp her bra.  Tossing the garment to the side, he ran his fingers along the soft, bare side of her left breast.  She gasped, arching and put her hands around the back of his neck, grabbing his earlobe in her teeth as he removed her panties.  God, she felt amazing, her skin pressed up against his again.  He felt light and dizzy, the edges of his perception fuzzy.  He felt drunk and he wanted more.

                Both naked, he swooped her up into his arms and lowered her on to the bed, poised over her.  She smiled and sat up for a kiss, her hand snaking down to encircle him, moving with him as his hand brushed over her.  She moaned as she opened her legs to give him more access.  He was surprised to find her already wet as he explored her, her hand closed around his hip, pulling him down on top of her.  Then she rolled over, her inviting body now on top of his.

                He smiled, the heat of the room pleasantly heavy.  She kissed along his jaw as her breasts pressed against his chest and he twitched where he was trapped between them.  “Rebecca …” he moaned, his hands resting at the curve of her hip.  Her mouth captured his again and he kissed her, the gin stronger.  She straddled him, angling her body upwards so that she towered over his prone body.  She rolled her hips against him, hands against his chest, murmuring his name and he felt himself slip against the outside of her body, her, warm, wet and inviting.

                “Greg …” she said again, head thrown back so she could see her neck.  She rolled her hips again along the length of him and gasped.  Greg raised his hips in response, elongating her motion.  “Greg,” she stated, her voice breathy but demanding.  “Greg, I want you to make love to me.”

                “Yes, Rebecca.  God, yes.”

                Then, suddenly, he was inside her.  She sunk down on him slowly, his hands at her hips.  He could feel her surround him maddingly, inch by searing inch.  She was tight, so tight, just as tight as he remembered.  With the taste of gin still on his lips, he thrust upwards into her.  She rolled her hips again in response, opening her knees to take him in deeper.  They found a rhythm quickly, as if they had always known.

                She gasped, her hands flying to her breasts.  Heat shot through him as she quickened the pace, the slow, silky drag of her skin on his made him throw his head back and gasp.  “God, Greg,” she urged, her hands moving to brace on his stomach.  “God, Greg, I missed this.  I missed feeling you moving inside me.”

                Greg didn’t respond, just looked at the beautiful woman loving him, the ivory of her skin flushed with pink, eyes closed, red mouth opened.  She rolled against his hips and he thrust into her as deep as he could.  “Rebecca …” he said, barely more than a whisper.  Overwhelmed, his head spun pleasantly as everything that was on the periphery, anything that wasn’t Rebecca, drifted away.

                “Stay with me, Greg,” she pleaded as she moved over and around him, the encompassing connection of their bodies overwhelming him.  “Please don’t ever leave me again.”

                “God, Rebecca.  I don’t want to leave you.  I want to stay here with you forever.”

                Her momentum became tenser and more erratic as she moved, as she took him deeper and deeper.  His fingers dug into her hips.  “Don’t leave West Covina, Greg,” she gasped, angling herself upwards, body shining, eyes closed, head thrown back, hair falling into her face as she bit her lip.  He breathed heavily, watching her, feeling her body tense around his.  She grabbed his hands from her hips and placed them on her breasts, her hands covering his as her pace quickened. He matched it with a groan, the same delicious pressure and tension building in him that he could tell was building in Rebecca.

                “I won’t go,” he promised.  “I won’t leave you again.” She cried out as she leaned forward, the angle making her tighten around him as he slipped into her body again and again, warm, and inviting around him.  He threw his head back, gritting his teeth, trying to hold on, hold on until she snapped, convulsing on top of him and screaming his name.  He let go at the same instant, his spasms intense and sharp.  They rode out the intensity, flushed, panting and together, Rebecca collapsing on top of him to kiss his chest, his neck, his cheek, his lips.  Her hands ran through his hair as one of his hands splayed across her lower back and the other pulled her hair out of her face.  “Rebecca … “ he whispered, a smile playing on his lips even as head spun and the edges of his perception got fuzzier. 

                “Greg …” she whispered back.  “I’ve missed you.  I’ve finally figured things out.  Come back to me …”  The feeling faded into an odd half-awareness and he buried his nose in the smell of Rebecca and relished the taste of gin still on his lips.  Her body was warm and flushed against him, his hands traveling up and down the curve of her hip. 

                “I will …” he whispered, closing his eyes, meaning every word.

                When he opened them again, he expected blue eyes and mussed hair.  Instead, he opened his eyes to the motel room again.  Rebecca was gone. 

                He shot up in the bed, a small table lamp shedding minimal light into the room.  He still wore the jeans and shark t-shirt he had thrown on after his shower when they got back from the hospital and he lay on top of the thin, garishly floral comforter.   Someone had thrown a blanket over him as he had slept.  His hand was encased again in the bright red cast.  He tried to flex his fingers and pain shot up his arm.   He realized Rebecca’s dress had been the same color. 

                WhiJo snored quietly in the other bed and leftover wings and pizza sat next to the television.  He put his head in his hands, the vividness of the dream not allowing him to forget the things he had promised.  He told her he would stay, giving up on everything he had worked for, and no doubt spelling an end to his sobriety.   His stomach turned violently, nausea crawling up his throat.  He threw the blanket to the side and stumbled to the bathroom.  He still tasted gin on his lips.  Dammit, he needed a shower. He might just throw up, too.  Dammit, his dad was right.  They were poison for each other.

                Greg turned the corner too quickly, too haphazardly in his dash and his shoulder collided against the corner, hard.  His casted hand shot out, bracing himself against the wall.  Pain lanced up his arm.  He must have called out because White Josh stirred in the extra bed, still disoriented from sleep.  “Greg?  You awake?  What’s the matter?”

                “Nothing.  It’s fine.  I’m fine,” he muttered out of habit.  WhiJo’s disbelieving pause from the other side of the room hung in the air.  Greg sighed, leaning his forehead against the wall.  “Just getting a shower,” he finally admitted.

                WhiJo sounded confused.  “You took a shower right before you passed out, remember?”

                Greg chuckled hollowly, attempting to lighten the situation.  “I guess I just … really miss showers.  There are about as many showers in Atlanta as there are washing machines,” he joked, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

                It worked.  WhiJo laughed.  “We were just messing with you, man.  You didn’t stink that bad.”

                “Yes I did,” Greg confirmed.  “Thanks for basically throwing me in the shower.”

                Greg didn’t have to see WhiJo to know that he was smiling.  “No problem, man.  We’ll always have your back, no matter what side of the country you’re on.”

                “I know, man,” Greg assured.  “That means a lot.”  The pause came again, but this time it was the comfortable silence of two old friends.  Greg turned the corner to the bathroom, successfully navigating it this time, before WhiJo’s worried voice interrupted him.

                “Seriously, though.  Why a 3 a.m. shower?  I’m pretty sure that’s not a regional pastime in the South.”

                Greg paused on his trek, his uncasted index finger and thumb feeling the cool smoothness of the wallpaper.  His instinct was to counter WhiJo’s typical forthrightness with a playful barb or a sarcastic comment.  A few came to mind, but Greg surprised himself by not deflecting the question.  “Bad dream,” he said, his voice soft yet heavy.

                “Your dad?” WhiJo asked, voice quiet in the still room.

                “No,” Greg answered.  “Booze,” he volunteered.  It was a half-truth, but more and more in his mind, his feelings towards Rebecca triggered thoughts of drinking.   So, it counted as emotional honesty, right?

                His friend’s voice in the dark interrupted his thoughts.  “Want to talk about it?”

                “No,” Greg blurted, laughing suddenly to cover his embarrassment.  “No, definitely not.  Rest assured, though, there was no shrubbery involved.”

                WhiJo seemed mollified.  “Well, that’s good at least,” he teased before yawning.  Greg heard him settle back into the bed.  “Enjoy your shower.”

                Greg stumbled to the bathroom and fumbled for the light.  Florescence filled the white tiled bathroom, blinding him.  As his eyes adjusted, he half-expected to see Rebecca standing in front of him, with tousled hair and mischievous, intelligent eyes.  He scared himself by being disappointed that she was not there.

                He sighed, closing the door behind him.  Pulling out his toothbrush, he brushed his teeth, trying to clean out the herbiness of the strong gin he tasted whenever he kissed her in his dream.  As he covered his cast for the shower, the bright red flashed through his mind, the same color as Rebecca’s dress, hugging her curves.  Rebecca’s dress, unzipping under his fingers.  Rebecca’s dress, pooling on the floor at the foot of his bed.

                He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand.  He needed to scrub that dream off him.  He hoped he would be successful.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again for sticking with the story!

She loved Josh.  She knew that.  She loved Josh and she had said goodbye to Greg in both her head _and_ her heart.  She hadn’t thought of him since.

_Okay, that’s a lie_ , that wise voice in the back of her head pointed out.  She had wondered how he was doing, how he enjoyed being back at school, and how his recovery fared.  Of course, there were also times she missed him, like when she’d see something funny and make a sarcastic comment about it to Josh, who would just smile blankly but not fire back.

Those instances were few and far between, though.  Then, standing in the middle of Aloha Tech, White Josh had told her about Greg’s dad and then she literally ran into him at the hospital and, well, to borrow a phrase: Boom.  Feelings.

She stared up the ceiling of her bedroom, the white paint unbroken even as it spun slightly.  She shifted further into the pillows on the bed but found them lacking.  Looking over to her right, she saw Josh sleeping soundly.  She had comforted him the best way she knew how: physically.  He had obviously enjoyed it, but he had fallen asleep immediately afterwards.  Rebecca had hoped for some “comforting” from him as well, but when that didn’t pan out, she stopped dropping hints and just drank straight from the bottle of wine he had brought into the room earlier.

Her head spun and she felt vaguely nauseous from the alcohol, so she knew work tomorrow would already be rough.  She might as well go all out.  She took another swig.

Grabbing her phone off the nightstand, she swiped through to look for a picture of Greg.  She had taken more than few when they were together, Greg often hamming it up or posing dramatically.  She scrolled through a few pages of pictures before she remembered she had deleted those pictures when she had nearly burned down her old apartment.  She wasn’t in the best place at that time, so, maybe there was a chance she missed one in her purge.

She drank deeply from the wine bottle as she scrolled.  Her eyelids drooped, but she fought her swimming head until she found what she was looking for.  She tried to snap the photo without him knowing, but he had caught her at the last second.  He grinned openly at something she had just said, reaching playfully for her phone.  Rebecca smiled softly as she enlarged the picture even as Josh snored beside her.  She inspected Greg’s open, easy smile and the twinkle in his eyes and it made her heart catch in her throat.  Goofy Greg had always been one of Rebecca’s favorite Gregs.  She missed this rare, unguarded expression.

She should delete the photo, she knew.  She loved Josh Chan now, but it was the last photo she had of Greg and their time together.  She glanced over at Josh sleeping beside her and took one last drink from the bottle.  Feeling off-balance – because of the wine, of course – she closed her eyes and let the alcohol put her to sleep.

When she opened her eyes next, sunlight was streaming in through her window.  The headache she expected hadn’t materialized.  She sat up in the bed and looked around, amazed.  She sat in her old apartment.  It should feel weird, she realized, but instead it felt comfortable and right.

The room looked nearly the same as it had when she moved out, except for a few details.  A tall wooden dresser that she definitely didn’t own had appeared in the corner.  It stood right beside hers on the wall.  The bed next to her was empty, but the sheets were pulled back and mussed.  A masculine smell drifted up and she leaned over to breathe it in.  The familiar scent of deodorant, aftershave and smoky whiskey filled her.  She knew that scent well.  “Greg?” she called.  There was no response.

Looking over, she found a digital alarm clock, a phone and half-empty glass of brown liquor on the table on Greg’s side of the bed.  On her side was her retainer, her phone, and the empty bottle of wine.

Centered on the wall over her dresser was a single 8” x 10” photo in a wooden frame.  It stood out dramatically on the otherwise unadorned wall.  It showed Greg and herself from what looked like the night of Jayma’s wedding.  Rebecca’s hair was a mess and she looked exhausted, but happy.  Greg wore a sharp navy suit with a silver tie and polished dress shoes.  _God, he looks good in a suit_ , Rebecca thought even as she realized something didn’t make sense.  Greg hadn’t worn a suit that night.  That night had been a disaster.

This picture made it look differently though.  They sat on a low brick wall next to a hillside under a lit streetlamp.  They kissed each other, eyes closed, smiling into each other’s lips.  Her hands pressed flat against Greg’s chest, leaning into him.  One of his hands wrapped around her waist and the other caressed her face, his thumb running an arch along her cheekbone.

This never happened, she knew.  Yet, here in her old apartment, existed pictorial evidence.  Rebecca closed her eyes and she could feel the gentle stroking of his thumb against her skin, the heat of his chest against her hand, the goosebumps racing across her body, and her breath quickening.

She “remembered” then, after Greg had returned with shots in tow, that she told Greg about the conversation she had had with Josh in the middle of the reception.  He had gotten angry, but she had reassured him with a kiss and whispered promises.  He had not started downing strangers’ drinks abandoned on a random table.  When Josh and the magic carpets came out, she and Greg had escaped out a side door to a star-filled balcony.  There, overlooking the city, they had stared into each other’s eyes and, haltingly pushing past their fear, they had their moment.

She could remember exactly how it looked, sounded and felt when Greg told her he loved her: the odd depth to his voice, the wind blowing by, the warmth of his arms.  The look of amazed excitement on his face must have mirrored hers when she said it back to him and they had kissed, deep and longingly.  They spent the remainder of the evening dancing close to one another, getting champagne tipsy, and smiling.

The part of Rebecca that knew that hadn’t happened faded to a whisper and she welcomed its exit.  This new reality was good.  Nice.  It was how it should be: two people in love.  No underlying issues to address.

She heard sizzling from the kitchen downstairs.  She walked out into the hallway and down the steps.  Greg stood in his boxers and a bright red t-shirt, his back facing her.  The smell of batter and fresh blueberries wafted towards her and she inhaled deeply, smiling.  Padding up behind him, she slipped her arms around his waist.

“Hey,” he said, soft and playful.  She didn’t need to see his face to know that he was smirking.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.  I wanted to surprise you.”

“Mmmm,” she hummed against the warmth of his back.  “It’s cold up there without you.”  She leaned around his side to see a stack of blueberry pancakes on a plate and another on the griddle, cooking happily.

Greg laughed, spinning in her arms to face her.  “It’s Southern California, Bunch.  It’s never cold.”  He switched the spatula to his right hand and wrapped his left arm around her back, expertly flipping the pancake, the golden brown making her stomach grumble.

“These look delicious.  When did you learn to make pancakes?”

He laughed again, a hint of sarcasm entering his voice.  “Oh, I am a man of many talents, Rebecca.”  His voice dropped an octave in that way that always made Rebecca feel very warm all over.  “You should know that by now.”

“Oh, I know, Serrano.  Believe me, I know.”  Her voice dropped as well.  He bent his head to kiss her, their lips meeting softly at first and then deepening.  He placed the spatula on the counter, wrapping his free hand around her waist and pulling her against him.  Rebecca smiled against his mouth.  One of his hands ran down her side to rest below her hip even as his mouth dropped to her ear lobe, teasing it with his teeth.

She gasped before the acrid smell of smoke rose from the stove and Greg broke away, cursing as he pulled the pan from the heat.  “Dammit,” he said.  “That was the last of the batter, too.”

“Awww,” Rebecca pouted dramatically.  “I hoped for at least one Mickey Mouse pancake.”  She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes wide and large.

Greg raised his eyebrows in playful dispute.  “Mickey Mouse?  What are we, five?”

She dragged a finger down his chest, watching it as it traveled.  “I suppose not,” she purred, pressing her hips against his.

"I’m glad,” he retorted, voice dropping to that tone that made her heart pound.  He gazed at her intently, that look of his that never failed to center warmth low in her belly.  “Because right now I’m more interested in my _woman_ ,” he breathed into her ear.

“Oh, really?” she smirked, lips parted.  “Who, pray tell, is that?  Is she here?”  Her hands looped around the back of his neck.

He smirked, too, enjoying their game.  “She is,” he teased, dragging his hand from below her hip along her side to brush the side of her breast through her shirt. 

She smiled again into his mouth as she kissed him.  “How do you know she’s your woman?”

He leaned against her, his physical reaction to their teasing obvious against her.  “Because she told me so.  Right after I told her I loved her.”

The last three words of his sentence silenced her and her warmth grew.  “Greg …” she whispered, kissing him deeply.  “Show me …”

He smiled at her, open and adoring, flicking off the burner.  Holding her face in his hands, his kiss was soft and sweet and unbearably romantic, their lips meeting and pressing against each other intently.  She took a step backwards and he followed, refusing to part from her.  Eyes closed, they maneuvered out of the kitchen as Greg’s hands dropped to her hips, his thumbs brushing her hip bones.  She sighed in response, feeling herself respond to his touch.  “Take me to our bedroom?” she said, looking up at him.  She wanted to feel him again.

His eyes widened, disbelieving what she said.  “ _Our_ bedroom?” he echoed, almost hopeful.  “Say that again.  I like hearing it.”

She giggled at his earnestness.  “ _Our_ bedroom,” she repeated, watching the corner of his mouth tweak up.  “ _Our_ bedroom, Greg,” she promised.

He swooped her up into his arms and carried her up the steps bridal-style.  She shrieked and giggled, one hand fisted in his bright red t-shirt and the other around his neck as he deftly climbed the stairs and took the corner to their bedroom.  She kissed him as he laid her across the bed and she dragged his head down to her.  He lay over her, never breaking the depth of their kiss.  His lips moved from her mouth to her earlobe and her hand ran down his back to dip underneath the waist line of his boxers, cupping his ass.  The other dipped in front to hold him as he hardened.  “Rebecca …” he moaned, shifting his hips and closing his eyes.  His hand dipped under the waistband of her panties, first pressing then slowly dragging his fingers against her.  She opened her legs reflexively, biting her lip and opening her eyes to find him gazing at her tantalizingly, meaningfully, significantly.  She ran her hand up the length of him and he moaned, adjusting his hips again.

She responded greedily, wanting to feel more of him.  She sat up slightly, imploring him to stay still as she pulled off her shirt.  He withdrew his fingers and quickly removed his own clothing before bending to draw her panties down her legs.  “Jesus, Rebecca,” he whispered, gazing at her as he moved to be on top of her again.  “You’re beautiful.”

She reached for him as he settled against her, the hair on his chest a familiar and welcome roughness.  “Greg,” she whispered as her blue eyes met his hazel-green.  “Show me.”

He filled her deliberately but languidly, never breaking eye contact.  Finally together, Greg paused, reaching up to brush a hair out of her face.  He withdrew again, slowly and deliberately and Rebecca felt her knees fall open to allow him even deeper inside her.

He knew every button to push with her and he did so slowly, insistently, putting meaning into every touch and kiss.  Their movements harmonizing together, she ran her hands through his hair.  She wrapped her legs around his back, giving her the leverage she needed to rise up to meet him.  “Greg, I love feeling you …” she breathed, trailing off as his fingers traveled downward to touch her.  He changed his angle slightly and she gasped.  She didn’t need to tell him where to go.  He already knew.

He lowered his face next to hers, their cheeks touching as they breathed into each other’s ears, unbearably romantic.  He kissed her.  “Rebecca,” he called.  “Rebecca, open your eyes,” he whispered.

She did so.  His eyes, his expressive hazel-green eyes looked into her.  A playful roll of her hips made him close them briefly, but then opened them and looked into hers again.  Their lips met again, softly, and although each kiss was little more than a peck, the motion and insistency electrified them.  She could see in his eyes the same emotion reflected back: a marvelous, warm, loving _something_ that Rebecca had not experienced with anyone else before and didn’t want to experience with anyone else but him.

He kissed her again, a little firmer but just as sweet, their breath commingling just as their bodies were doing, Greg over her and inside her and _within_ her heart and mind.  Her world dissolved to be nothing but their movements and their breaths together.

Their breathing came quicker and quicker, their bodies in sync as each felt the other in the most intimate and telling way possible.  She watched the emotions flit through Greg’s eyes.  Devotion.  Loyalty.  Love.

“I love you, Rebecca,” he said, tension building in the muscles of his body.  “I love you,” he repeated.

Then she knew he was waiting for her, like he always did.

She felt her own tension building, the feel of him sliding inside of her, her legs wrapped around his waist, crossing behind his back.  His eyes looked into hers and showing her everything she knew he felt.  “Greg,” she gasped, breath coming fast even as their rhythm increased again.  “I love you, too, Greg.”  She truly hoped he knew that.

Her release came hard after that and she cried out, Greg crying out immediately after.  They rode out the spasms below and above one another.  Heart pounding, he collapsed on top of her, catching himself on his arms.  She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck, playing with the fine hairs.  Together, they lay in the quiet sunlight staring at each other as their breathing slowed.

“That was kind of amazing,” she nuzzled up against him.  He smiled, the full, happy Greg smile.

“I wanted to show you,” he whispered, tucking that same strand of hair behind her ear and shifting to lie on his back.  Rebecca curled up next to him, her head tucked under his chin on his chest and one of her legs slung over his hips.

 “You’re really good at doing that,” she murmured into him as her fingers played with his chest hair.

 “I know,” he grinned in playful arrogance.  She laughed and he kissed the only part of her he could reach: the top of her head.  She snuggled deeper into the after-glow, settling harder against his chest.  The warm room smelled of sex and aftershave and her own vanilla body wash.  The morning sun poured through the window and she felt herself smiling and drifting in a haze of happiness.

“Y’know, we still have blueberry pancakes down there,” he sighed, his baritone voice rumbling in his chest.  “I even found some real maple syrup.”

“Mmmm,” she murmured sleepily.  “I love real maple syrup.  But maybe nap first?”  She didn’t have to see him to know that a warm smile had spread across his face.

“Sure.  Nap first,” he agreed, pulling an errant corner of the comforter over them and tucking a pillow under his head.  Rebecca could hear his heart beat slow as his body relaxed into sleep, his breathing deepening.  There, in her and Greg’s apartment, she fell asleep listening to his heartbeat.

The next time she opened her eyes, the light from the window split her skull and her stomach did flips as she rolled over.  Looking over, she saw that the other side of the bed was empty, but the Josh Chan smell of energy drinks and body spray met her nostrils.  She stumbled out of bed, dug through her underwear drawer to find her vibrator and threw on her bathrobe.

Battery-operated-boyfriend in hand, she staggered to the door of the bathroom to get a shower, tucking her special friend into her pocket once she hit the hallway.  The details of the dream stayed with her, following her into the shower.

Shower first.  Then food.  God, she could really use some pancakes.

 

*********

An hour later, her hair still hanging wet around her ears, she sat in the booth of a cheap diner and looked searchingly out the window.  She had known it had been too early to call Paula, but she had anyway, needing her best friend by her side after that disturbingly vivid dream.  She waved Paula down as she came through the door, the bell jingling.  Rebecca frantically beckoned her over, gesturing so forcefully the entire booth shook.

“Okay, okay,” Paula placated.  “I see you.  I’m coming.”  She threw her purse into the booth and slid in, picking up the menu.  “So what’s so important that we had to get together *before* work to talk?”

“Before work?”  Rebecca asked.

 Paula looked at her, lips pursed.  “Uh … yeah.  Before work.  It’s Friday.  People usually work on Fridays.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened in realization.  “Right.  Right.  Of course.  I knew that.  That people worked on Fridays, not that it was Friday.”  Paula raised her eyebrows in disbelief.  “I mean,” Rebecca continued.  “I knew it was Friday, too.”

Paula reached across the table to put one hand on Rebecca’s arm.  “Cookie, you don’t sound right.  Why are we here so early in this disgusting place?”  She pulled her arm off the table top audibly, her skin sticking to its surface.  “I had to call in Scott in order to get the kids ready this morning.”  She picked up a menu and screwed her face up in disgust when her fingers stuck to that, too.

“No reason!” Rebecca squeaked.  “I just wanted to have breakfast with my best friend!”  Rebecca picked up her menu and gazed at it.   Paula shook her head and followed suit. 

“You’re going to see me at work today, y’know.”

“I’m actually probably not heading in to the office today.  There’s a ... colleague in from out of town that could use my input on a thing.”

A harried server came over, her back to a large family with young children behind her.  She appeared to be at the end of her rope.  “What can I get you guys?”  One of the children in the back of the restaurant screamed, and the server tensed, closing her eyes and shuddering.

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” Paula sneered, looking around the restaurant.  “I’ll just take a cup of coffee.”

Rebecca perused the menu, eyes searching.  “Do you have real maple syrup?”

The server narrowed her eyes as if she had just added Rebecca to the long list of horrible things in her life.  In the background, another child screamed.  “We have whatever comes in the little tubs.”

Rebecca pursed her lips.  “What do these tubs look like?”  She gestured pointedly with her hand.  “Do they look like little syrup jugs?”  Paula looked at her, flabbergasted.

The server blinked twice.  “No.  They look like little tubs.  Like the jelly but deeper.”

“Ah, of course,” Rebecca concluded.  “Not real, then. Just high fructose corn syrup with caramel coloring.”  She looked up at the waitress, narrowing her eyes.  “High fructose corn syrup has been linked to obesity, diabetes and heart disease, y’know.”    The server raised an eyebrow and kept her pen poised over her notepad.

“Cookie,” Paula interrupted gently.  “I’m pretty sure this poor waitress has nothing to do with that.  Just order.”

“Okay, okay.  Fine,” Rebecca conceded, eyes roving over the menu once more.  “I’ll have the tall stack of pancakes.”  She paused.  “Blueberry pancakes.”

The waitress snagged the menus off the tables and turned away.  Paula looked at Rebecca.  “Rebecca, what’s going on?”

“What?  Nothing’s going on.”  She shook her head frantically.

“You call me before 7 a.m., demand I come eat breakfast with you, and you just gave the waitress at a cheap, filthy diner a hard time for not having real maple syrup.”  Paula tossed her hands up in the air.  “What’s going on?  You’ve been acting weird ever since you heard Greg was back in town.”

“What?  No I haven’t.  Everything’s fine.  I’m acting totally normally.  But I am a little worried about you, Paula.  You seem to be acting really weird since we discussed the Cunningham brief yesterday.”

Paula held up her hand to stop her, unimpressed.  “Oh, no.  Gas lighting may have worked on Josh, but it’s not going to work on me.”  Paula shook her head.  “You’re ping-ponging again, Rebecca.  Greg’s back in town for like a day – in the hospital _with his father_ \-- and you’re already talking about ‘visiting a colleague’.”  Realization dawned on Paula’s face and she gasped.  “Oh my God, Rebecca, are you still in love with him?!”

“Love?  What, no!”  Rebecca’s voice raised and she touched her temple with her finger.  “I love Josh and we’re meant to be together forever and it doesn’t matter what I said to Greg in my sex dream last night ….” she rushed.

“Hold on, hold on, slow down Cookie,” Paula interrupted.  “You had a sex dream about Greg last night?”

“What?  No, of course not!” she exclaimed.

 Paula cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

Rebecca rolled her eyes and deflated.  “Okay, yeah, I did,” she admitted, tripping over her words as she spoke quicker.  “It was amazing and sweet and romantic and soooo hot and it reminded me of when we were together and then I woke up and I had to take my vibrator into the shower with me because I couldn’t get the dream out of my head and I had to do something …”

Paula stopped her.  “Wait a second.  They make vibrators you can take in the shower?  God, that’s like the only place I can get some alone time.”

Rebecca nodded animatedly.  “Oh, yeah.  I’ll send you a link.”

Paula nodded again, looking around the restaurant at the stares they were garnering from the other diners.  She changed the subject.  “Okay, okay.  Look, I’m sorry, Rebecca.  You and Greg weren’t good together.  He may have gotten away from the booze, but he’s still an ass --- a sexy, sexy, ass.”

Rebecca stared off into the middle distance dreamily as if picturing it.

“Rebecca – hey, Cookie, over here,” she waved her hands in front of Rebecca’s face.  “Stop.  I’m not a fan of the guy, but he probably needs some space.  Leave him be, Rebecca. Let him work through what he needs to work through.”

Rebecca’s shoulders dropped again.  “I miss him, Mama.  I’m worried about him.”

“I know, Baby,” she soothed, reaching across the table to grab Rebecca’s hand.

The server returned to their table, setting a cup of coffee in front of Paula and a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of Rebecca.  Rebecca grabbed her silverware and dumped the fake maple syrup on top.  Paula cradled the hot coffee mug against her palms, smiling slightly.  The blueberry pancakes were sweet and amazing and everything Rebecca wanted at that moment, even without real maple syrup.  The end of her dream replayed in the forefront of her mind: she and Greg cuddling under a disarrayed comforter, his heart beat slowing as he whispered, “I wanted to show you.”

                _That’s the key_! she realized.  _Maybe if she showed him_ …  She took a huge bite of her pancakes triumphantly and smiled back at Paula, a glint in her eye.  _I need to show him._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again for the wonderful response to this story! It does a heart good.

When Josh Wilson’s phone alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. the next morning as always, his muzzy mind took a couple minutes to process the unfamiliar surroundings.  He sat up in bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and yawning.  He poked the alarm quiet and swung his legs over the side, clad only in boxers.  The curtains of the hotel room had been opened, letting in the early morning light.  The pizza boxes from the night before had been cleaned up, the empty soda cans in the trash and the leftovers nowhere to be seen.  The room sounded heavily silent.

Greg’s empty bed, still covered in clothes from his exploded suitcase, had been haphazardly tidied as if Greg had wanted to straighten up more but something interrupted him.    “Greg?” Josh Wilson called out, loud enough for his voice to carry into the bathroom.  He stood and walked over to the small fridge against the front wall.  The leftover pizza and wings were in there, stacked neatly on top of one another.

“Greg?” he called again, walking across the room to knock on the bathroom door.  Silence greeted him, but a piece of note paper stuck out from the door jam, impossible for anyone to miss.  Greg had scrawled a short note in his capitalized handwriting. It made Josh Wilson’s heart drop.

“HOSPITAL CALLED.  DAD’S WORSE.  TOOK AN UBER. – GREG.”  Greg had tucked another note in the door jam, below the first as if as added as an afterthought.  It was so much more like Sober Greg than Past Greg that Josh Wilson smiled past his worry.  “Thanks for being here, dude.  Means a lot.”

Josh Wilson picked up his phone, dialing Hector.  They needed to get to the hospital.

*********

It took four calls from White Josh and another two from Josh before Hector even heard the phone ring.  Even then, it took Josh pounding on his door and his mom’s screaming voice to make him open his eyes.  The five alarm clocks in his line of sight displayed 6:37 a.m.  “Ma!” he screamed back.  “It’s not even 7 yet!”  Hector blurted when Josh swung the door open.

“Dude!” Josh cried, averting his eyes as Hector frantically gathered sheets around his naked waist.  “You sleep in the nude?”

Hector shrugged sheepishly.  “I like the way the sheets feel against my bits.”  Josh didn’t smile along with Hector’s playfulness.  In fact, Josh radiated tension and anger. 

“Man, c’mon!  Let’s go,” Josh snapped, picking up a pair of jeans off the dresser and tossing it at Hector.  “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for half an hour, Hector. We gotta get back to the hospital.”  Hector turned his back to Josh as he stood up, sliding the jeans up and zipping them _very_ carefully.

“Hospital?”  Hector’s eyes widened in concern and he was suddenly and sharply awake.  “How’s Mr. Serrano?”  He caught the shirt Josh tossed him and slipped it over his head.

“Don’t know,” Josh barked, tossing his arms in the air.  “Greg isn’t returning our calls or texts.  He just left White Josh a note saying his dad’s worse.”

Hector ran a couple of hands through his hair.  “What do you mean, he’s not returning calls?” he asked, darting down the hallway to brush his teeth.

“I mean he’s not telling us anything.  Same thing he did yesterday.”  Josh paced up and down the hallway outside the bathroom.  Hector eyed him as he brushed his teeth, his mother wisely making herself scarce.  “I’ve known Mr. Serrano almost as long as I’ve been alive and I don’t know how he is.  I mean, I know he’s sick and he looked so bad yesterday, like pale and old, and I know he’s worse today and I’m not sure how he could be worse.”  His words got faster and faster as he spoke, his hand gestures becoming larger and more dramatic.

Hector spit, wiping his mouth.  “Chan, man, calm down.  We’ll get there and figure out what’s going on.”

“And Greg!” Josh continued, ignoring Hector.  “Greg was so _weird_ yesterday, like pacing and quiet and not saying _anything_.”  Josh’s voice became louder and more frantic.  Hector nodded, silent.  “Like, not saying anything!”  Josh continued.  “No jokes, no teasing, no sarcasm, NOTHING!  It was so weird and I didn’t know what to do.”  He sighed, voice quieting as his arms dropped to his sides.  “Today Mr. Serrano’s worse and he can’t really get any worse because if he got worse …” Josh trailed off, eyes wet.  “People aren’t supposed to get worse in the hospital,” he finished softly, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm.  “They’re supposed to get better.”

Hector put a hand on Josh’s shoulder.  “I’m worried, too, Josh.”  Josh met his eyes and nodded.  “Let’s just get to the hospital and find out what’s going on, okay?  We got through yesterday.  We can get through today.”  Hector heard the words exit his mouth before he thought about them.  _Damn_ , he thought. _That sounded pretty good._

Josh nodded, breathing deeply.  Hector now presentable, they trotted down the steps and out the door, climbing into Josh’s car.  Tension and quiet pervaded the car, Josh’s eyes watery but focused firmly on the road.  Hector’s knee bounced as he looked out the front windshield, occasionally checking the reflection in side-view mirror.  Hector reached to turn on the radio at a stoplight, but Josh shooed his hand away.

Hector fidgeted, the silence of the car oppressive.  Josh stayed perfectly still, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  Josh opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, shaking his head.  He sighed and furrowed his brow furrowed.

Hector’s knee bounced.  Josh shot him a glare and Hector stopped. 

The light turned green and Josh pulled forward.  Once they were through the intersection, the tension in the car proved too much.  Hector’s knee started bouncing again, his hand reaching out to brush a speck of lint off the dashboard of the car.  Josh’s eyes flicked over to watch Hector’s hand roll down the window and flick the fiber out the window before rolling the window back up again.  Hector looked forward and Josh mirrored him, his attention back on the traffic in front of him, stopped at another red light.

Hector’s knee bounced.  Josh shot him a glare and Hector stopped.

The pattern repeated itself for four stop lights as Hector’s discomfort manifested itself in cracking knuckles or tapping hands or bouncing knees.  Each time it stopped suddenly at Josh’s tense, sharp glare.

At the fifth light and the fifth glare, Hector finally snapped.  “DUDE!” he barked, tossing his hands in the air.  “I need to freaking move sometimes!”

“You’re shaking the entire car, man!  I can literally feel the shocks _bouncing_!” Josh yelled, grinding his grip on the steering wheel.

“If you didn’t drive like my grandmother we probably would be there by now!”

“Really, dude?  Because if you had just gotten out of bed the first time White Josh called, we would _definitely_ be there by now!”

Their words hung in the air like heavy storm clouds.  Two more stoplights passed before Josh finally sighed.  “Look dude, I’m sorry, okay?  This whole thing has me freaked out.”

Hector did not let the tension pass easily.  “Look, man, I get that.  I don’t know what to do or what to say, either.  Greg isn’t acting like Greg, either old Greg or new Greg.”  Hector closed his mouth, the muscle in his jaw working.  “It’s like he’s buried under all these layers of whatever he’s going through and we can’t bust through to him.”  He shook his head, looking out the window at the palm trees passing by.  Josh nodded and glanced over, relieved that someone saw the same things he did.

“But here’s the thing, Josh,” Hector continued, his voice hesitant but clear.  “I can’t try to get through to both Greg and you.  Neither can White Josh.  I’m sorry man, I really am, but I have to stick with Greg on this one.  He was finally getting his life together and right now I am _legitimately_ scared for him.”  Hector went silent, propping his arm up on the door and rubbing at his lower lip.

Josh glanced over at Hector’s thoughtful expression, stunned into silence.  His eyebrows drew together in thought and he licked his lips as if contemplating something.  “You really think it’s that bad?” he asked into the silence, his voice quiet.

Hector looked at him, half incredulous, half empathetic.  Josh was surprised to see tears in his eyes.  “You don’t?” Hector breathed.

Josh didn’t answer him.  He only sighed, considering.  He felt suddenly ashamed by his reactions over the last couple of days: not picking up Greg’s calls; resisting going to the hospital; calling Mr. Serrano’s still form “creepy”; bailing on Greg and White Josh at the hotel last night.

He had acted like a bad friend again, right when Greg needed him most.

Josh turned left into the visitor’s parking garage of the hospital, pulling into a space near the appropriate wing.  He turned the engine off and he and Hector sat staring out the windshield.  Josh furrowed his brow and a heaviness settled on his chest that he didn’t remember feeling before.

Hector paused in his reach for the door handle, looking over at him.  Josh turned his head to meet his gaze.  “This is going to suck, isn’t it?” Josh asked.

Hector nodded.  “Yeah, it is.”

“What do we do to make it better?”

Hector sighed.  “I don’t know man.  We stand there, I guess.  We try to get him to talk.  We listen if he does.  We remind him that he has friends and we do what he needs us to do.  But it’s going to suck for a while, no matter what.”

Josh nodded, finally accepting the situation.  “Okay,” he breathed, looking over at Hector.

Hector stared back at him, putting a hand on Josh’s shoulder.  “Okay.  Let’s go.”

*********

At the ICU reception desk, a heavyset man brusquely stopped them.  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you can’t go back there.”

“Don’t worry, bro."  Josh flashed him a smile.  "We’re on the list.  For Mr. Serrano?”

The man did not move.  “I know who you’re here for.  Nurse Rob gave me a heads-up.  They aren’t allowing visitors to Mr. Serrano’s room right now.”  He gestured over their heads in the direction they had just come.  “The waiting room is down the other hall.”  Hector looked at Josh, who shrugged.  Together, the followed the man’s direction to a blandly decorated room.  Large couches and plush chairs lined the walls.  The carpet was an institutional beige and the large windows on the interior wall showed the bustle of the hallway.   When viewed from the inside the room, one could see all the way down to the nurse’s station at the front of the ICU.

White Josh stood in there, alternately looking out the windows overlooking the parking garage and glancing down at his phone.  He smiled wide when he saw them approach.

“Dude?” Josh asked, worried.

White Josh shrugged.  “Don’t know.  They won’t let me back there.  They just keep on saying that he can’t have visitors right now.”

“What about Greg?” Hector asked.

White Josh shrugged again.  “I texted him and let him know I was here.  I haven’t heard anything.”  His eyes open wide, he tossed his arms up by his sides.  “I wish I knew what was going on.”

Josh pulled out his phone and dialed Greg.  “That’s weird,” he muttered as the phone rang without Greg picking up.  “He’s here, right?”

“Where else would he be?” Hector asked.

“He’s here,” White Josh confirmed, looking through the windows and down the hallway to the nurse’s station.  Nurse Rob stood there, jotting notes on a clipboard.  “Based on the way Nurse Rob keeps looking at us, Greg’s here and something’s up.”

All three guys looked at Nurse Rob, who met their eyes from down the hall.  Josh shrugged dramatically, Hector pouted with large brown eyes and White Josh crossed his arms and looked expectant.  Nurse Rob’s shoulders fell.  He glanced down the hallway at the Serrano room and frowned, his gaze lingering for a second.  Nurse Rob slung his stethoscope around his shoulders, and stepped out from around the desk and began walking down the hallway.  Hector slapped the chests of the Joshes on either side of him.  “Here he comes!”

Nurse Rob entered the waiting room sheepishly.  The guys started firing questions at him immediately.  “Guys, guys,” he pleaded.  “C’mon.  I shouldn’t even be here.  I sure as hell can’t start answering questions about my _patients_.”

They guys were undeterred.

“What’s going on with Marco?”

“Is Mr. Serrano getting better?”

“Is Greg even back there?”

Nurse Rob sighed.  “I can’t tell you anything about Mr. Serrano’s condition.  That’s a violation of a whole bunch of patient privacy laws.”  He stressed “patient” and looked at the men significantly.

The questions started again in earnest until Nurse Rob cut in.  “Look, guys, I’ll say it again.  He met each one’s eyes for several seconds.  “I don’t have a lot of time here, so I can only answer a few questions.  But I can’t answer _anything_ about my _patient_ ,” he paused before finishing, _“Marco Serrano_.”

“Not anything?” Hector questioned before being silenced by an incredulous look from Nurse Rob.

“Who _can_ you talk to?” Josh asked.

“By law, I can only talk to his health care proxy, and you guys ain’t him.”  Nurse Rob again looked at each man in turn.  Rolling his eyes, he continued.  “Typically health care proxies are _not_ patients, though …” he trailed off leadingly.

A look of understanding dawned on White Josh’s face.  “Greg.”  White Josh realized.  “Greg’s the proxy.  You can talk about Greg, right?”  Nurse Rob, looking relieved, nodded dramatically.  “Is Greg here?  How’s he doing?”

“Yes, he’s here.  He got here before my shift started at 5:00 this morning.”

Hector and Josh brightened out of their confusion.  “Is anyone back there with him?” Hector pressed.  Nurse Rob shook his head.

“Is he okay?” Josh questioned, voice soft and laden with emotion.

Nurse Rob sighed, his face falling.  “He’s in rough shape.  Look, I have to get back to my patients.  I’ll try to get him to come talk to you guys.”  A voice called Nurse Rob’s name from down the hall and a sudden bustle drew his attention away.  “I have to go.  I’ll do what I can.”

The guys watched him speed down the hallway, whipping his stethoscope from around his neck as he disappeared around a corner.

“So … now what?” White Josh said as they stood watching him go.

“I think we wait,” Josh stated, walking back into the waiting room and taking a seat on one of the plush couches.

*********

They still waited as the morning sunlight streamed in through the windows of the drab room.  They had taken turns pacing around the long room before Hector spotted Greg’s familiar back at the nurses’ station down the hallway.  Nurse Rob stepped up to the counter and spoke with Greg, the nurse’s face clearly visible to the guys in the waiting room.  Nurse Rob’s eyes flicked over Greg’s shoulder to briefly make eye contact with Hector.  Hector patted both Joshes to get their attention, pointing down the hall.

Greg looked exhausted, even from the back.  His shoulders slumped and he carried himself heavily, as if every motion hurt.  From their position, the guys could not hear the conversation between Nurse Rob and Greg, but they watched as Nurse Rob put a consoling hand on Greg’s shoulder, who leaned heavily on the counter, alternatively running his good hand through his hair and rubbing at his eyes.

As the guys watched, Greg awkwardly jotted something down with only the useable thumb and forefinger of his right hand and slipped a piece of paper into the back pocket of his dark jeans.  Nurse Rob said something else, eyebrows furrowing and mouth tight in concern and Greg nodded, still not speaking, before turning back in the direction of Marco Serrano’s room.

Nurse Rob glanced up again, briefly meeting Hector’s hopeful and concerned eyes.  He sighed and reached out, grabbing at Greg’s arm before he could leave the nurses’ station.  He gestured over Greg’s shoulder to the trio of friends in the waiting room.  Greg nodded, appearing to be aware of their presence.  If possible, he seemed to deflate even more.

The guys stepped forward as a group, otherwise completely still as they watched the pantomime between the two men and recognizing Nurse Rob’s efforts to make Greg even acknowledge them.  Hector did not like how Greg looked: tense and empty.  Greg could be a dick – an angry, sarcastic, hilarious dick – but he always had an air of motion and energy around him.  Hector couldn’t see that now.  It was off-putting and weird.

White Josh stepped up towards the interior windows that overlooked the hallway.  “C’mon Nurse Rob,” he encouraged.  “Convince this idiot to not shut us out this time.”

Josh rubbed the back of his neck, unable to tear his eyes away from muted discussion Nurse Rob and Greg were having down the hall.  “Yeah, Greg,” he breathed.  “We’re waiting right here, man.  Come talk to us.”

Nurse Rob gestured, more forcefully.  Greg stilled, then shook his head.  Nurse Rob snatched something out of Greg’s hand, a chip of some sort and held it up not one foot from Greg’s face, pointing again down the hallway to the waiting room.  Greg ripped it out of his hand, angry, the volume of his voice increasing so that the guys could hear the tone if not the exact words.  Greg spun on his heel and stalked two steps down the hall before Nurse Rob caught his arm again.  Greg wrenched it out of his grasp.

“C’mon, Nurse Rob,” Hector softly cheered.  “We’re worried.  Tell him we’re worried.”

Finally, Nurse Rob sighed, gesturing towards them again.  His motions were softer, almost sad, like he had given up trying to convince Greg and had switched to pleading with him to talk to his friends, if not for his own sake, then for theirs.  He nodded tiredly and finally turned to meet their eyes.

The bright red cast on his arm stood out against his grayish complexion. Face pale and eyes dark, Greg looked like he had drowned.

Josh waved sheepishly, trying to crack a half-smile but failing awkwardly.  White Josh gestured to convince Greg to walk down the hallway.  Hector just met his gaze, pleadingly.  He stared at them sighed again.  He nodded at Nurse Rob and walked towards them.  Hector whooped, Josh laughed and slapped the other two on the back, and White Josh rolled back onto his heels and grinned.

As Greg got closer, though, their celebration faded.  His face was drawn and his eyes were red and puffy.  He walked stiffly and heavily like a man forty years older.  He had none of his usual intensity.  “This isn’t good …” White Josh breathed as Greg approached, and Hector had to agree.  It looked like he was mourning.

They met Greg at the doorway of the waiting room, Greg barely able to get out a hushed, “Guys, thanks …” before Josh had enveloped him in a hug that cut him off.  Surprised, Greg went stiff before relaxing and wrapping his arms around his best friend, clutching him like a life preserver.  When Josh pulled back, Hector rushed in to take his place, followed shortly by White Josh.  “Look, thanks for stopping by.  Sorry I didn’t come by sooner.”

“What’s going on, man?  Why can’t we go back with you?” Hector asked.

Greg shifted back and forth, the fingers on his left hand twitching in rhythm to one another.  He didn’t meet their eyes and ignored Hector’s question.  “Look, there’s a few … uh, a few things to, uh, finish up there and then I’m heading back to the hotel.  Can I meet you there?”

“Sure, man, whatever you need,” Josh nodded.

“We can also wait for you here,” White Josh suggested, eyes traveling over and taking in Greg’s stance and exhausted body language.  “Give you a ride back?”

Greg emphatically shook his head “no.”

“Greggie, what’s going on?  How’s your dad?” Hector repeated.

Greg’s breathing increased suddenly and he closed his eyes, centering himself.  “Dad’s …” he stuttered before ending that thought and beginning a new one.  “A few hours ago, Dad …” he cut himself off before tears sprung to his eyes and he covered his face with his good hand, body shaking.

“Oh, Greg,” White Josh breathed, suddenly understanding.  “I’m so sorry.” 

Hector reeled back, feeling his own eyes burn as he scrubbed his chin and swallowed heavily.  Josh whispered a short, “no,” before looking to each face, panicked, to try to find some contradiction there.  When he didn’t find it, tears streamed down his face as he panted slightly, trying to find equilibrium.  White Josh put an arm around his shoulders and reached out to Greg.

Greg backed away, hands shaking.  “I ...” he cleared his throat.  “There’s still stuff I have to take care of.  To finish up here.”  His voice was flat, but he appeared to take some stability in the repeated phrasing.  “Some paperwork and stuff to take care of before they take him …” he stopped again.  “Before I’m ready to go.”  He finished.  “Why don’t you guys go get some breakfast.  Not here – the food is garbage here, although the pudding is pretty good – but some place with real food.  There’s a diner a few blocks from here.  I’ll get an Uber back to the hotel.”

White Josh, shaken, opened his mouth to protest, but Josh beat him to it.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, man.  Why don’t you text us when you’re ready to go and we’ll swing by and pick you up.  We’ll be at that diner.”

“I really don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“That’s fine, whatever,” Hector said.  “We’ll wait at the diner.”

“Guys …” Greg protested.

“Greg,” White Josh said, stepping up and putting both hands on either of Greg’s shoulders.  “Let’s just stick together, okay?  Let us help?”

Greg looked confused and touched at the same time, his head tilting as he processed it.  His hand went to his hip pocket, where Hector knew his AA chip still resided.

Greg nodded numbly.  “Yeah.  Okay.  I’ll text you when I’m ready to head out.”

The guys nodded.  “You sure you don’t want one of us to go back there with you?”

Greg shook his head vehemently.  “No.  No, definitely not.  He wouldn’t want you to see him like …" he cut himself off.  “Anyway,” he gestured over his shoulder to Nurse Rob, who, juggling his other duties, had been keeping an eye on the proceedings in the waiting room.  “That dictatorial mother hen barely lets me go to the bathroom without checking in.”  Greg shot an annoyed glare over his shoulder.  Nurse Rob caught the look and smirked in satisfaction before bustling off to tend to a patient.  Greg turned back to the guys, hugged each of them in turn, and promised to text before heading back towards the nurse’s station.

The guys watched him go, shock flowing off them.  “I can’t believe Mr. Serrano’s gone,” Josh breathed, tears trailing down his cheeks.  Hector and White Josh nodded numbly.  “Remember that time he made us that weird Italian pasta in high school?”

White Josh looked skeptical.  “You mean rigatoni?”

“Yeah!  He wouldn’t let us go to the movie until we ate it all?  It was bright green!”

“It was pesto.  That was basil,” Hector corrected bluntly, his voice flat as he processed.

White Josh interrupted.  “Jesus.  I could use some fat and carbs right about now.”  Hector and Josh looked at him, surprised.  “Everyone has comfort food, man,” he pointed out.  “Bacon and hash browns are mine.”

Josh nodded.  “Yeah.  That sounds good.”  With one last look down the hallway, Greg’s back visible at the nurses’ station, they turned toward the elevators.  “Hector, do you still have Greg’s Netflix password?”

“Yep,” he confirmed.

“Let’s get something ready for the hotel,” Josh said.  “Line some things up so he doesn’t have to worry about it.”

White Josh and Hector looked at him in impressed surprise.  “What?” Josh asked.

“Nothing,” Hector clarified.  “That’s just a really good idea.”

“I can have good ideas sometimes,” Josh defended, still wiping his eyes.  White Josh and Hector looked at each other and then back at Josh.  “Let’s just queue something up.  It might help.”


	13. Chapter 13

                Rebecca was angry.  Very, very angry.  What did Paula know anyway, telling her to stay away from Greg?  Sure, Paula knew things and she was almost always right, but still, what did Paula know?

                Lately, Rebecca had been trying out this thing: helping out her friends.  She saved the office from that handsome tyrant when Nathan tried to fire everyone.  She babysat Paula’s kid when she became overwhelmed.  She even got Heather her sweet-ass gig as Miss Douche.

                She was so freaking caring and supportive as a person and that’s what she wanted to be for Greg right now.  She just wanted to support him.  That’s not too much to ask.

                Besides, this definitely had nothing to do with her dream or what Greg said in that dream.  Or what Greg _did_ in that dream.  That dream had answered so many questions, but she was not doing this because of the dream.  Nope.  Not at all.  No way.

                She took a deep breath, slamming her hand against the steering wheel.

                This isn’t about the way he laughed when they were together, either.  Or the way he would drag his thumb up her arm when they were cuddling on the couch watching television.  Or the tears in his eyes when he told her that he loved her the first time.  He had said that their chemistry would lead to divorce, which meant that he had thought about marriage at some point.  What better way to prove to someone that you love them than marriage?  The ultimate happy ending!

                Maybe if she went to him like this, provided support to him, he would see that they didn’t have to be a shit show together. 

                She pulled up to the hospital, throwing her car in park and jumping out, jogging into the main lobby.  She strode to the elevator bay.  “C’mon, c’mon …” she urged, poking the button repeatedly.  The elevator opened and she jumped in, rising quickly to the ICU and bursting out as soon as the doors opened.  She ignored the pointed glares from the staff as she dashed around wheelchairs, gurneys and walkers.  She almost darted past the semi-circular admin desk before stopping herself, her palms slamming down on the countertop.

                A thin young man with straw-colored hair startled at her entrance.  “Can I help you?” he squeaked.

                “Which one’s the Serrano room?” she drilled, bouncing on the balls of her feet and visually inspecting each room for a familiar face.  She needed to get to Greg.  Needed to see him.  Needed to show him so much of what she felt.

                The kid, his nametag said “Jimmy” _because of course it did,_ looked confused.  He apologized, asking for the name again as he tapped it into the computer console in front of him.

                “Serrano,” Rebecca hissed.  “S-E-R-R-A-N-O.”

                Jimmy’s eyes widened as he looked at her.  He tensed and picked up a nearby clipboard, flipping a few pages.  When he looked up at her again, pale-faced, he swallowed hard.  “Oh, uh, I’m new here,” he explained pointlessly, “and this is my first one of these.”

                “First one of what?” she questioned sharply.

                “I can’t say much, but, uh, Mr. Serrano isn’t a patient here.”

                “No,” Rebecca corrected.  “Marco Serrano.  Not Greg Serrano.”

                Jimmy’s face reddened.  He double-checked his records.  “Yes ma’am, I know.  That’s who I’m talking about.   He isn’t a patient here anymore.”

                Rebecca straightened from her position against the counter.  “That’s impossible,” she grilled.  “He was unconscious in the ICU _last night_.”  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized the lawyer tone had crept into her voice, but she didn’t care.  She glared at Jimmy.  “People don’t get discharged from the hospital when they’re unconscious in the ICU.”

                Jimmy squirmed, but still gave her a consoling look.  “No, ma’am, they don’t,” he confirmed.  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to speak with Mr. Serrano’s family about the details.”

                Rebecca’s steel trap mind snapped shut and she gasped, reeling backwards.  Her heart suddenly dropped as she put two and two together.     _Oh, God_.  _No._

                “Th – thank you,” she stammered, turning around, her energy evaporating.  If Marco hadn’t been discharged and was no longer a patient, that left only one possibility.  “Oh, God.”  Tears sprang to her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand.  “Oh my God,” she repeated.  Marco Serrano had died.  Greg had lost his father and the only person had ever been there for him.

                Her romantic notions of being the shoulder to cry on, of whispering quaint and corny words of comfort in his ear, of holding his hand while he talked it all out, all of them fled her mind.  She saw the situation now with sudden clarity:  Greg wouldn’t appreciate any of those things. This wasn’t some two-star movie and Greg wasn’t Hugh Grant.

                She had to find him.  Not for her sake, she realized with finality, but for his.  She had to make sure someone was taking care of him, even if it couldn’t be her.  He deserved that.  He deserved to be okay.

                She exited the elevators and jogged back to her car.  After her “consolation” of Josh last night, Josh had told her Greg’s hotel and room number.  Rebecca stared at her phone in her hand.  The purple lock screen glowed with shining silver script spelling out “Happily Ever After.”  She surprised herself by being torn.  If she called him, he may not answer and she would lose the surprise chance to see him in person.

                Sure, he had told her in person that he didn’t want to talk to her, but things were different now.  He probably regretted what he had said.  She tossed her phone on to the passenger seat and slammed the gearshift into “drive”.  The hotel was ten minutes from the hospital.  She’d be there in no time.

*********

                The elevator at the Comfort Inn had apparently broken because despite punching the button  ten times and waiting for what felt like fifteen minutes – even though her stupid watch said it had been two – Rebecca had to stride around the corner and throw open the heavy fire door to the staircase.  She huffed through four floors while her cute little ballet flats cut into her heels.  Following the ever-helpful sign on the bland wallpaper, she turned right out of the stairway, her eyes flicking to each individual room number.  She slid to a stop in front of Greg’s room and stared at the plain, white door.  She heard male voices inside, recognizing Josh’s tenor as well as White Josh’s direct, strong vocals and Hector’s almost lyrical voice.  She didn’t hear Greg’s baritone.

                She blinked in confusion, her brow furrowing.  _Huh.  Is Greg not here?_   Nevertheless, she stepped up to the door and knocked.  She heard motion inside.  Hector’s hushed voice sounded from just on the other side of the door.  “Is that Rebecca?  What do we do, man?”

                Hector must have gotten his answer because after a brief pause, the door opened just enough for Hector’s frame to squeeze through, followed by White Josh’s muscular figure.  “Uh, hi,” Hector greeted, wincing and rubbing the back of his neck.  “How’s it going?”  White Josh stood stiffly next to Hector, arms crossed over his chest.

                Rebecca pulled her hair out of her face and went for the weakest link.  She flashed her large eyes at Hector.  “I, uh, wanted to see Greg.  I heard about his dad and I wanted to check on him.”  The men’s protectiveness dropped suddenly and their own worry and grief shown through.  They looked at each other as if trying to gauge how much to say.  Rebecca sighed sadly, the pit in her stomach reopening.  She had been hoping that her deduction about Marco outside the ICU had been wrong, but their reaction had just confirmed it.  “I’d really like to just check on Greg,” she pleaded, moving to push in between them.

                White Josh stepped in front of her, Hector at his side.  “Yeah, so Greg’s a little busy right now dealing with,” he looked over his shoulder, his voice quiet, “arrangements.”

                “Yeah,” Hector chimed in.  “He’s gotta … uh, settle his dad’s accounts?  Is that what you call it?”

                “Settle his accounts?” Rebecca questioned.  “That’s great!  I can help.  I’m a lawyer so I’m great at accounts.”  She again stepped forward to push between them, but the men closed ranks, shoulders touching.

                “No, that’s okay,” Hector blocked, glancing briefly at White Josh, who nodded encouragingly, “He’s done business school stuff.  Learned all about … uh, settling accounts.”  Hector looked confused at his own statement then nodded once.  White Josh winced but then smiled overly widely.

                Rebecca narrowed her eyes.  “Okay, so that’s not really what you do in business school,” she trailed off.  She glanced at the two men and at the door to their back.  _Now or never, Bunch_.  “Greg!” she called, raising her voice to be heard over their shoulders to the inside of the hotel room.  “Greg!  I’m out in the hallway!  Come talk to me!  I’m right here!”

                Both White Josh and Hector looked panicked before the silence answered Rebecca from the hotel room.  It dashed any hope of seeing him.  “Oh,” she breathed softly.  To their credit, both Hector and White Josh looked disconsolate.  Hector quietly apologized as they ducked back inside, physically locking the door behind them.

                Rebecca stood at the closed hotel room door in confusion.  She stepped forward and raised her knuckles, ready to pound on the door, force her way inside and go to Greg to make sure that he had someone.  Her closed fist stopped as she drew it back for the first knock.  She heard the murmuring of the men on the other side of the door, Greg’s voice quiet but present.  Her hand dropped to her side and sadness crept into her.  He didn’t want to see her.  He didn’t need her like she thought he did and like she needed him to.

                Her mind flashed back to last night’s dream.  They look in his eyes as he … as they … . It had been a look she had seen from him before: first during their sex cocoon phase, then at their fateful meeting on the bridge.  Then again as he rode up the escalator at the airport.  She hadn’t realized she was seeing love until he told her.  Then he left her.

                She turned, stumbling as she dragged her feet towards the stairs.  She pressed the elevator button and it surprised her when the doors opened immediately.  “Now you work!”  She threw her hands up. 

The ride to the lobby was thankfully quick.  Once there, she collapsed heavily into the driver’s seat of her car.  Was she really that much of a sap?  Even when she had been chasing Josh, he had returned her phone calls.  She sighed and picked up her phone, popping open her “Recents” and finding Paula’s number at the top.  She punched the number with her thumb and held it up to her ear.  “Mama?” she murmured.

                “Oh, Cookie,” Paula answered.  “What happened?”

*********

                White Josh and Hector slid back into the hotel room door, heaving relieved sighs.  Inside, Josh sat stiff and uncomfortable next to Greg on his bed. Chan’s face reflected confusion and hurt as Greg stared at him in open disbelief.  “C’mon, man!  That joke kills!”

                “Are you serious right now?” Greg gasped.  He shook his head.  “Josh, man, now’s not really the time for jokes.”  Greg closed his eyes silently as if praying for strength before looking pleadingly at White Josh and Hector.

                Chan tried changing subjects.  “Y’know,” he started in a quiet tone.  “Rebecca’s been trying to get a hold of you.”  Greg’s head whipped around to look at him in open shock.  Hector buried his face in his hands while WhiJo closed his eyes and threw his head back in disbelief.  “I think she’s worried about you.  She wants to talk to you.”

_Not right now_ , Greg thought.  _I can’t do Rebecca right now._   Greg scowled at Josh.  “I’m not talking about Rebecca with you, Josh.  I think we’ve both shown that that’s a bad idea.”

                “Hey, Josh, buddy,” WhiJo interjected, slapping Chan on the shoulder.  “Why don’t you give Greg some space, huh?  Why don’t you go over there,” he gestured vaguely to the other corner of the room, “and get some Netflix set up?  That was your great idea!”  Josh nodded and slid over to the other bed.

                Greg shook his head and put his head in his hands, his eyes glancing over to the new stack of forms, pamphlets and other paperwork that the hospital had foisted on him.  Hector sat next to him on the bed.  “You okay, man?” Hector asked, putting a hand on Greg’s shoulder.  “I mean, you probably shouldn’t be.“  Greg shot to his feet, going over to the desk and starting to sort through the paperwork, his bright red cast slowing the process down.

                “Where do I even start with this stuff?” he blurted, flipping briefly through a pamphlet on the stages of grief.  He tossed it to one corner of the table before picking up another one on funeral homes.  He felt that knot in his stomach rise again, his shoulders bunching in tension.  “The retirement home said they would send over his will in the next couple of days and they’ll probably have more documents to go over.  Do any of you guys know how to deal with this stuff?”  All three shook their heads.  “I mean, c’mon with this!”  He leaned over the table, knuckles white from where they gripped the edge of the table.  He slammed his left hand down on the table top.

                WhiJo met Chan’s wide eyes.  “Hey Greg,” WhiJo suggested, easing Greg to the side as Hector stepped in to pile the paperwork neatly.  “Worry about that stuff later, huh?  It’s after 9 a.m. and you haven’t eaten anything since last night.  We brought you back some huevos rancheros from the diner.  I know you love those!”

                Greg sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck and shrugging WhiJo’s hands off his shoulders.  “God, you guys are like helicopters!  I can take care of myself!” he snapped, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, you guys.  You’ve been great.  Thanks.  I just …” he stammered before shutting his eyes, his jaw clenched.  “I just need a walk right now.   By myself.  Some fresh air.  Some time to myself to clear my head.”

                “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Chan pointed out. 

                Greg shook his head, not acknowledging Josh’s comment.   He looked around at the four bland walls of the room that suddenly seemed too small to contain him and three other people.  He felt the urge to move.  His chest tightened and it became difficult to breathe. “I just need to walk.  Need to get out of here.  Need to think,” he blurted, rubbing his forehead.  He swiped his phone and the hotel key off the table and pushed past Hector and WhiJo, who stood open-mouthed and stiff.  Without another word, he stalked out of the room, heading to the back steps.

                Against their better judgement, they let him go.  They didn’t know what else to do.


	14. Chapter 14

Rebecca sat in her car, staring out the windshield of her Subaru.  Her hands shook as she pressed her cell phone to her ear, Paula’s voice filtering through the speakers.

“Oh, Rebecca.  You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.” Rebecca confirmed.  “I went to the hospital, and when he wasn’t there, I went to his hotel room.  They wouldn’t let me in.”

“They?  Who is ‘they’?”

“White Josh and Hector.”

“You went to his hotel room?  And Josh was there?  Your Josh?”

Rebecca nodded, sniffing.  “Yeah.  They wouldn’t let me in!  So I called over their shoulders so he would know I was there …”

“Oh, Rebecca.”  Rebecca could picture Paula pinching the bridge of her nose.  “Josh was in the room?  The love of your life.  But you were calling out to Greg?”

“Greg’s the one I need to see, Paula!” Rebecca defended, her voice raising sharply.  “Greg’s the one who is not okay right now.  I have to make sure he’s okay!” she finished in a rush, her voice high and frantic.

“Oh, Rebecca.”

“STOP SAYING THAT!” she yelled.

“Easy, Cookie,” Paula soothed.  “Take a breath.  There’s something here that I’m missing.  Why is Greg not okay?”

Rebecca took a breath and sighed.  “Marco passed away.  Probably early this morning.”

“Oh,” Paula breathed.  “Oh, that makes more sense.”

“I’m worried about him, Paula!” Rebecca confessed.  “He looked like he was drowning when I saw him in the hospital, and that was before.”  She paused, her hand coming up to touch her temple in that way she did when she felt unsure about what to do.  “I just want to make sure he’ll be okay.”

Paula sighed on the side of the line.  “You do care about him, don’t you?”

A single tear fell down Rebecca’s cheek.  She didn’t bother to wipe it away.  “Yeah.  I think I do.”

Paula remained silent for a moment.  “Honey,” she started, “this is going to be hard to hear.”

“Paula, I know that …”

“Just listen here for a second.  It sounds like Greg could have called you if he wanted to.  He could have reached out.”

Rebecca felt her words like a punch to the gut, but she couldn’t ignore the truth of the statement.  “Do you think he still cares about me?” her voice broke.

“Cookie,” Paula pleaded.  “Right now, I don’t think it matters.  Right now he kind of has the leeway to be an even bigger dick than usual.  He’s probably focusing on nothing but his dad and dealing with all the things you have to deal with when a parent dies.  He’s probably drowning in stuff.”

Rebecca sniffed, blinking against the tears and wiping her cheek.  “Like what?”

Paula’s voice got quiet. “When Scott’s mom died back in Illinois, she left a mess:  bills to be paid, accounts to deal with, property to inventory and distribute, moving her stuff out of her apartment.  That’s on top of funeral planning, dealing with the hospital, burial or cremation decisions, all while trying to process the fact that you just lost someone you love.  The workload was huge and we were lucky to have Scott’s sister to help with the work.  Greg’s probably looking at a stack of paperwork right now that business school doesn’t even begin to prepare you for.”

“I want to help, Paula.  Why won’t he let me help?”  The pleading note entered her voice again.

Paula’s gentle voice responded.  “Rebecca, it sounds like his bro-crew, or whatever they call themselves, has literally surrounded him.  Trust them to take care of him right now.  Do you trust Josh to take care of his best friend?”

Silence hung in the air over the phone.

“Wow,” Paula sighed.  “Wow, you really don’t.  Okay, I can’t really say I blame you on that one, but here’s the thing.  You may _have_ to trust them, Cookie, or trust Greg to get through this.”

Rebecca sniffed and wiped her eyes.  “I can’t just sit around and do nothing, Paula.”

Paula sighed again.  “I know.  It’s not in your nature.”  She paused and Rebecca heard the shuffling of papers on the other end as well as the click of Paula’s nails on a keyboard.  “Okay.  Where are you right now?”

Rebecca looked up at the front entrance of the hotel looming up in front of her.  “I’m at the Comfort Inn on East Cameron.  I haven’t left the parking lot.”

“Okay,” Paula said.  “There an Applebee’s right around the corner from there.  I’ll have to cook up some story to get out of the office, but I can be there within an hour.”

“The office.  Right.  What about Nathaniel?”

“Oh, please,” Paula snorted.  “Family comes first.  Nathaniel has no frame of reference for loving relationships and the entire concept confuses him long enough for me to slip out the door.”

 Rebecca nodded, impressed.  “Nice play,” she complimented waterily.

“Thank you.  Besides, that Applebee’s has great Bloody Marys.”

Rebecca raised her eyebrows, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.  “Paula, it’s not quite 10 a.m.”

“Which is the exact time Bloody Marys were invented for!  Like I said, within an hour.”

Rebecca hung up and pulled up her email.  She deleted the emails from Nathaniel, rolling her eyes, responded with a crying frowny face to Darryl’s email about the cancellation of all future Weekend Tuesdays, and reviewed the others, adding a couple replies here and there.  _That should keep his Royal Imperiousness off my back for a while._

Pulling into the Applebee’s parking lot, she thought maybe Paula was right.  Maybe the guys would take care of Greg, no matter how improbable that seemed.  Still, there had to be something she could do.

The greeter at the front showed her to a booth in the back corner.  She asked about the bathroom and the greeter pointed her across the dining room.  She tossed her jacket on the seat of the booth and dodged around the random pieces of Americana dotting the dining room.  Turning a corner to the right of the bar, she looked up from her phone to avoid a collision with an old-time sled randomly foisted in the middle of the walk way.  _Seriously?  In the middle of Southern California?_

She glanced to her left and stopped dead in her tracks.  “No …” she whispered, her stomach twisting painfully and her mouth going dry.

Greg sat in the furthest, darkest corner of the bar, his hand gripping a glass of whiskey in front of him.  The bartender looked up from wiping a glass and then glanced worriedly back at her sole customer.

Greg’s complexion was an odd pale-grey, dark circles standing out under his eyes.  He slumped with his right shoulder against the well, his head propped up by his red cast, the only brightness associated with the man in an otherwise glaringly colorful room.  His left hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey, his knuckles white.  He gazed intently into the still amber liquid, searching it.

Everything Rebecca associated with Greg, the intelligence, wit and passion had drained from him.  It seemed like he had already drowned and only this remained.

Rebecca froze in the wide entranceway to the bar, the quiet sounds of other patrons fading to silence behind her.  Greg, intent on the liquor, had not seen her come in.  She could simply back away and he would never know she saw him.  That thought seemed very attractive to her at that moment. 

With sudden clarity, though, she understood what she saw in front of her: the end to Greg’s dream and his sobriety.  She did not have the first clue of how to approach it.  She also knew that if she left, Greg would be alone with only whiskey to console him.  She couldn’t do that.

She took a breath.  Just like every other time when Rebecca found herself on the edge of a deep, prickly situation, she jumped in with both feet.  Closing her eyes, she called out.  Her voice was loud in the otherwise silent bar.  “Greg?”

He didn’t look up, but he closed his eyes at the sound of her voice, a muscle working in his jaw.  His expression didn’t change as she approached the end of the bar, slipping into the only seat next to him.  His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“Greg?” she repeated, putting a hand on his arm and glancing at the drink in his hand before looking at his face.  He didn’t react to her presence, just continued to stare into glass of brown liquid gripped in his hand like a lifeline.  “Are you okay?” she breathed.

He laughed, a short and bitter thing that hung in the air between them.  “No.”  His voice was quiet and flat.  “No.  Definitely not.”

Her guy twisted again, her stomach suddenly ponderous.  She took a breath and searched his face.  She found the blank mask of a drowned man.  “What are you …” she began before he interrupted her.

“I don’t even know how I got here,” he wondered aloud, his voice hollow and deep.  “I mean, I _remember_ how I got here: I went for a walk.  _I_ _just wanted to go for a walk!_ ” he bit off, angry.  “Then, as I walked, I started thinking and stopped paying attention to where my feet were taking me.”  Greg finally broke eye contact with his drink and instead looked at the door to the restaurant.  “I walked right in through that door,” he gestured with his chin, “came right over to this chair and ordered this drink.”  He sounded disgusted with himself.  “Whiskey.  Neat.” 

He looked back at his drink, avoiding Rebecca’s gaze but not moving his arm from her grasp.  “I’ve just been sitting here.  Looking at it.  Getting reacquainted with the smell.  Remembering how it would taste.”

“Greg, I’m sorry about your dad.”

He pressed his lips together and chewed a little on the corner of his mouth, the most Greg-like thing she had seen him do.

“Josh tell you?”  The emotion that had colored his voice a second ago disappeared and the hollowness returned.  No judgment existed in his voice, but Rebecca felt it like a slap in the face.  _Again with Josh_.  Would Josh always be a hurdle between them?  A harbinger of dysfunction?

“No,” she said, then sighed.  “I went to the hospital this morning to try to see you.”  His eyebrows quirked up in surprise and for the first time his eyes darted to hers before returning to his glass.  She continued.  “I figured out what happened by what they weren’t telling me.”

Greg’s nod was barely perceptible.  “That makes sense,” he muttered.

Greg nodded again but didn’t say anything.  He pushed himself off the wall and hunched protectively over his drink.  Rebecca glanced at the bartender who had slunk to the opposite end of the bar and stood timidly wiping glasses.  Her eyes flickered over their faces.  Rebecca jerked her head towards the doorway and she all but bolted out of the room at the direction to leave.

Rebecca closed her hand on Greg’s forearm, holding it.  She could feel the muscles clench as he gripped the glass tighter in response.  He remained completely still, face a sad mask and betraying nothing of what he must be feeling.  _Jump in, Bunch.  With both feet_.

“Greg, I wanted …”

He didn’t let her finish, a bitter smile suddenly flashing across his face.  “Did you know,” he began as if starting a trivia game.  “Two-thirds of people who go into recovery relapse within the first year?”  He let the factoid hang in the air with a pinched, “it figures” expression.  “After a year,” he continued, “that figure drops to just under 50%.”  He screwed up his mouth and nodded, impressed.  He turned the glass in his hand and watched the overhead light reflect through the red-brown liquid.  “See, I know that now.”  He tapped his temple with the hand that held the glass.  “I’m a bright guy.  I do my research.”

Rebecca held her breath.  This is not what she expected.  This is a lot harder and dirtier than she thought it would be.  He was breaking her heart all over again, just as he was breaking his own.

Her brow furrowed in concern as he continued.  “The major causes of relapse include, are you ready?”  He didn’t wait for her response.  “Opiate prescriptions, acute pain, and _life stressors_.”  He stressed the last words, tilting his head to catch the whiskey in a different light.  “After five years, though,” he continued, mocking.  “After five years, the rate of relapse is only 15%.”  He nodded, impressed, before lifting the glass towards his mouth.  Rebecca’s heart leapt in her throat.  He put it down with a soft _thunk_ after a few inches and she sighed helplessly.

“I was stupid enough to imagine that for myself.”

Rebecca gasped.

“I thought that in five years I would have my degree.  Be a few years into my career – _career_ , not some crappy job,” he spat.  “Maybe in New York?  Philly?  Chicago?  Seattle?  Getting on with the life I always wanted to have, settled in.”  He swirled the glass and Rebecca listened as the whiskey sloshed up the side.  “ _Life stressors_.  That’s what they call these situations, when your dad …” he cut himself off suddenly.  “God, I’m an idiot.  I manage to avoid the opiates with this,” he held up the bright red cast, “but this … but Dad …” his voice broke and his eyes filled with tears.

Rebecca slid her hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder, a pit opening in her chest as her sight blurred from tears.  “Greg …” she started, trying to sooth him, trying to bring him back from the dark place he was in, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

“I want to get lost in a bottle,” he declared.  “One. Fucking. Drink.  That’s all it would take to toss everything I’ve done in the last few months in the trash.  I picked myself up.  I got to Emory.  I started building a life there.  I’d toss it all – every bit of it -- just to get numb again right now.  To not feel _this_ anymore.” 

He looked at her and held her gaze.  Rebecca gasped at the emptiness she saw: he had drowned and the worst part was that he knew it.  He mourned for his father, certainly, but also for himself.  _No,_ she thought.  _It can’t be too late_. _It’s not too late._  Rebecca squeezed his shoulder and placed her free hand over his forearm holding the glass.  She leaned into him.

“Dad was proud of me, y’know.  He told me that a lot, over the phone.”  Greg smiled sadly.  “He said that as long as I was happy and sober, that was all that mattered.  He was always there for me.  Always reliable.”  He swirled the amber liquid again, making it slosh along the side.  “Two-thirds in the first year,” he repeated the factoid.  “It’s like it’s inevitable.”  His hand shook on the glass. 

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, offering what little comfort she could.   “Greg, no,” she soothed, a tear falling down her cheek.  _Please, no.  How can I fix this?_

“Little better than 3/10.  Not good odds,” he rationalized hollowly.

“You can get through this Greg.  Please.”  _Please_.

“It’s not just the numbness I miss.  I miss the smell.  The taste.  The way it warms my gut.  I miss the fuzzy edges of perception.  Dammit, I even miss the physical act of raising a glass.  At least I know it will always be there.”

He lifted the whiskey off the bar to take a drink.  The liquid sloshed again, glowing red-brown in the light.  Greg was many times stronger than her, she knew.  In one of his goofier moods, he had swung her over his shoulder to get her out of the kitchen after she burned the dinner they were preparing together.

But when he lifted that glass to his lips, she did the only thing she could think of.  She pushed back on his forearm.  “Your dad’s not the only one who is proud of you,” she choked out. 

Greg’s eyes darted to her own, shock registering on his features.  To be honest, it shocked her too.  She didn’t remember thinking in those terms before about Greg and his decision to leave her behind in West Covina.  Her anger and feelings of abandonment had ruled.  They were still present, but had faded.

She had said those words aloud to him and she discovered she felt it.  What he was doing was fucking _hard_ , but he was doing it and she was proud of him.

“I don’t know how to do this stuff, Greg.  You of all people should know that.  You were one person I always found it hard to lie to. 

“So I’m telling you now: you have a lot of people rooting for you.  A lot of people who would do _a lot_ for you.  Don’t forget about them.  Rely on _them_.”

Greg blinked past his shock, exhaling in a rush.  He put the glass down on the bar with a _thunk_ and, twisting slightly in his seat, he stared at her.  His eyes darted from her hair to her eyes to her mouth to the tears trailing down her face.  He blinked past his own and she wondered, briefly, if he was going to kiss her.  Did she want him to? 

He didn’t.  “I can’t stay in West Covina, Rebecca,” he said, green-hazel eyes sad and voice broken.  “I want you to be happy and I know that’s not me.  I can’t do it when I can’t keep my raft afloat.”

“I know,” she said, staring back at him.  “I get now what leaving meant to you.  You deserve to be happy, too, Greg.  I think I finally understand that that’s not me, either.”

His hand unclenched from the glass and they both stared at it on the bar, the room silent.  Needing more contact, she leaned her head against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  She nodded silently, a tear streaming down her cheek to land on his shirt.

“Me too,” she said.  They paused there, Greg still and Rebecca relishing the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek.

“Greggie!” Hector’s panicked voice rang out as he and White Josh flew through the front doors and bolted into the bar area.  Their eyes darted around until they found them.  They stopped short when they saw Rebecca with him.

Greg did not move but Rebecca pulled away reluctantly to look at the quickly-approaching forms of Hector and White Josh.  She sidled out of the way when Hector enveloped Greg in a side-armed hug.  “Man, we were so worried.”  He eyed the drink on the bar.  “You didn’t?”

Greg shook his head, wiping his eyes.  “Good,” Hector breathed while White Josh slid the glass away.  “Chan is waiting back at the hotel.  Let’s go back there, huh?  There’s bad Chinese food on the way …”

 “Panda Heaven?” he asked plaintively.

“Of course, man,” White Josh confirmed.  “Your favorite.  I haven’t had their egg rolls since you moved, and _man_ have I been looking forward to it.”

“I thought you said egg rolls have no redeeming nutritional value,” Greg murmured.

“They don’t,” White Josh confirmed.  “But I guess I could really use some fat and carbs right now.”  Hector draped his arm over Greg, who nodded his appreciation to Rebecca before being led out, White Josh following.

“Hey, White Josh,” Rebecca called.  The man turned.  “Take care of him?”

White Josh looked perplexed for a second before his face relaxed into a smile and he nodded.  “We will.  Thanks, Rebecca.”

She watched them leave the restaurant then sat down heavily at the bar.  She grabbed Greg’s abandoned whiskey glass, downing it in one.  It seared her mouth and closed her windpipe.  She coughed and sputtered, desperate to breathe.

A soft hand rubbed her back as the chair next to her pulled out.  Paula sat down.  “Bloody Marys would have gone down a lot better.  Whiskey’s not a drink you shoot.  At least not without practice.”

“Know … that … now,” Rebecca sputtered.  Paula smiled as Rebecca regained her breath, exhaling in a rush.

“You okay, Cookie?”

She smiled, even as the whiskey turned her stomach.  “How long were you there?”

Paula looked over her shoulder.  “Stood just outside the doorway for a lot of it.  I texted Josh and recommended he send his sidekicks to collect their wayward bro.”  The women sat in the silent bar, staring down at the empty whiskey glass Rebecca spun in her hand.  “Cookie, what you just did for Greg was pretty amazing.  I hope you realize that.”

Rebecca smiled.  “I didn’t know what to do.  I was so scared for him.”  She stared into the empty glass, smelling its smokiness.  “I want to help, Paula.”

“Rebecca, you may have to consider the possibility that you are ping-ponging again …”

“No, Paula.  It’s not about that at all.”  Paula looked skeptical. “No, really,” Rebecca assured.  She looked over her shoulder to the door that Greg just walked out of.  “I don’t know how to help him.”  She pleaded with Paula, tear-filled blue eyes wide and searching.  “How can I help him?”

Paula sighed.  “Okay.  I have an idea.”


	15. Chapter 15

Apartment 382 had the only bare door in the retirement home.  Or rather, the “senior living facility” or whatever the hell it was called.  Its stark whiteness was an island in a sea of lovingly decorated doors, covered in decorations or cheesy wooden signs declaring “Blanche” or “David” lived here, which surely required a week’s worth of 7th-grade shop classes to make.  It all made Greg’s heart clench.  Happy people lived here.  He believed his dad had been happy here, as well.

He sighed as he looked down at the key in his hand and then at the lock on the door.  The day before, Greg had been sitting in WhiJo’s living room when he had received a call from Barely Seniors.

Greg had been very slowly working through the estate documents and funeral plans, the legalese making his head spin, yearning for the market analyses he worked on in school when Barely Seniors had gently reminded him of the apartment at their facility and the personal effects that remained there.  It had struck Greg as callous, but they probably dealt with this situation a lot. 

Standing in the hallway outside Apartment 382, his mother’s voice shook him out of his reverie.  “Honey, are you okay?”

He winced.  He’d been answering that question a lot in the four days since his dad died.  “Can we just act normally, Mom?  I don’t think I can answer another ‘Are you okay?’ question.”  He felt her step up behind him in the hallway.  She put her hands on either side of his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his shoulder blade.

“Sure,” Shauna agreed.  “I won’t ask again.  At some point, though, we are going to have to go inside.”

“I know,” he muttered, scratching at his eyebrow with his good hand.  He didn’t want to do this.  He missed his dad.  Between the funeral planning and his dad’s messy affairs, he hadn’t had much time to process.  He felt an odd numbness still, like he cognitively understood that his father was gone, but he hadn’t fully internalized it.  _Like he knew it, but he didn’t **know** it._

He focused on the key in his hand before turning around to face his mother.  “You sure you want to do this?  This is my thing, my responsibility.  You don’t have to be here if it’s, I don’t know, weird.”

She put her hands on either side of his face.  “There’s nothing else that’s more important than this right now, Greg.  Your father and I were not good for one another, but we did love each other once.  I’m glad you asked me to help.”

Greg nodded and let out a breath.  _Now or never, Serrano_.  He unlocked the door and let it fall open.  The great green “Serrano’s” sign greeted them first, hanging on the large wall opposite the door.  The same floral couch was there, too.  They stepped inside to a tidy apartment, the air filled with the familiar but dusty smell of bird seed, soppresseta, and garlic, a smell so uniquely his father that Greg sighed.   Two large rectangular spaces were empty on the carpet, and Greg recognized the outlines of Torme’s and Sinatra’s cages.  The neighbor had already collected the birds and their effects to care for them.  He was surprised to find that he missed their squawking.

It unnerved him to walk around a dead man’s apartment, even his father’s, but the furniture and decorations were so familiar that he found himself sinking into memories, pulling books off shelves and cracking them open.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother doing something similar, her hand running over the “Serrano’s” sign reverently before focusing in on the framed newspaper article hanging below it.

He pulled an old photo album off a shelf and sank down into the familiar couch before flipping through it.  “I remember that old thing,” Shauna said as she sat down next to him.  They flipped through the neatly organized photographs that eventually became more and more chaotic until the book functioned less as a scrapbook and more like a collection of memorable documents.  Greg had seen the old pictures before: pictures of Greg as a kid appeared, of the three of them in better times, sunny and smiling at the beach.  Certificates and documents gradually replaced the pictures.  Greg’s senior photo appeared, curly-haired and goofy as he hadn’t quite grown into his ears.  Greg’s high school transcript and college diploma were wedged in between two pages.  He smiled. 

Only one framed picture appeared in the entire apartment: a small 5x7 of Greg and his dad sat on the side table next to his Dad’s medications.  His dad smiled broadly in the frame, his arm around his son’s shoulders.  In the picture, Greg looked pained but patient, smiling indulgently.

Greg looked at the photo album and the picture on the side table forlornly, chewing on the inside corner of his mouth.  God, he missed his dad.  A week ago, he was joking with him on the phone about one of his professors.   He didn’t realize at the time that that would be their last conversation.  Shauna nudged her son with her shoulder.  “Hey.  Y’know, we don’t have to go through all this stuff today.  Just get it into boxes and go through it later.  Toss anything not in the will or that you don’t want.”

 _Ugh, the will_ , Greg remembered.  The dense language in the will made his head hurt just thinking about it.  It would take weeks, at least, for Greg to sort through it all.  _Emory’s not going to let me miss a month of classes_ , he thought, then felt ill.  He shouldn’t worry about that right now.  He should worry about fulfilling his dad’s wishes, not his school’s.

“Hey,” Shauna repeated.  “Are you o …” Greg flashed her a scowl.  She smiled apologetically before starting again.  “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“What makes you think ...”

“Greg, you think very loudly sometimes.  I can practically _hear_ the wheels turning.”  Her lips quirked up in a smile.  “It reminds me of me.”

He sighed.  “Nothing.  Just wondering about timing, that’s all.”

Shauna sighed, too.  “It’ll get done.  I’ll help where I can.”

Greg nodded, as a pit in his stomach opened silently.  He flipped a couple more pages to find his old acceptance letter from Emory staring at him from the page.  The now-familiar weight returned to his chest and his shoulders sagged.  Shauna looked at the letter and smoothed his hair back.  “You’ll get back to Emory, Greg.  It may not be this semester, but you’ll get back there.”

“Yeah,” he whispered as he clenched his jaw to work through the disappointment.  “But this is about Dad.  I need to focus on what Dad would want.  School’s got to be secondary now.”

He moved to close the scrapbook to place it aside, but his mother’s hand stopped his.  “That’s not true, Greg.  Your dad wanted you to get your degree – at Emory.  He did everything he could to ensure that you could go.”

“I know, but they aren’t going to wait while this stuff gets done.”  He rubbed his eyes with his hand.  “I’ve already asked my advisor about a leave of absence for a semester or two.  It’ll push everything back, but they’ll grant me one due to the circumstances.”

“Is that what you want?” Shauna asked, skeptical.  “To stay here in West Covina?  You just told me how dangerous this place is for your recovery.  That the longer you’re here, the more trapped you feel.”

He answered quickly and without hesitation.  “No.  I don’t want to stay here.  I barely got out of this place to go to Emory the first time.  Coming back for a while – I just don’t know if I could get out again.  But every minute I’m here, my past gets more and more ingrained and my life now -- my future – gets farther and farther away.”  He looked down at the scrapbook in his lap.  “But I’m not seeing any other option here, Mom.”

Shauna frowned.  “Let me think on it.  I’m usually pretty good at this stuff.”

“Yeah, okay,” Greg conceded, his voice trailing off as he stared into his father’s smiling face in the picture on the side table, his face falling in grief.

“Honey, you know, it’s okay to worry about this.”

Greg shook his head, shocked that she had read his mind.  “Was I thinking that loudly?”

Shauna nodded.  “Your dad just passed.  You have a lot to deal with right now.   You’re allowed to worry about how this is going to affect your life, too.  That’s just part of the process.  It’s not selfish.”

“Kind of feels like it is.”

“I know.”  She grabbed his good hand and pulled him up to join her standing in front of the couch as he placed the scrapbook to the side.  “But it’s not.  Your dad would say the same thing, and you know it.”  She waited until Greg nodded reluctantly.  “We’d better get started.”

“I’ll get the kitchen,” Greg volunteered.

Shauna kissed the back of his hand.  “Sounds good.  I’ll take the bedroom.”

A bolt of panic shot through Greg.  He had not told his mother about his dad’s reputation as a lady’s man in the community.  _God only knows what he keeps in that bedroom_ … “Uh, Mom, you might not want to …”

Shauna laughed lightly.  “Greg, I was married to the man for over a decade.  There’s nothing in there that’s going to shock me.”  She stood from the couch, eyes twinkling.  “Unless you _want_ to find out what your father keeps in his nightstand drawer?”

“Uh-uh.  No.  No way.  It’s all yours.”

 

*********

A week after she found him at Applebee’s, Rebecca’s gaze alternated between the back of Greg’s head and Father Brah as he officiated the funeral service.  Greg sat in the front row of the expansive Catholic church, flanked by his mother who held on to his arm tightly.  On Greg’s other side sat a large, barrel-chested man with a biker beard who managed to look threatening even in these circumstances.  Directly behind them sat both Joshes and Hector.  Rebecca and Paula had settled in with Valencia and Heather several rows back.

Darryl slid quietly into the space on the pew next to Rebecca just after Father Brah began.  “Glad I made it,” Darryl whispered.  “After all the excitement of finding Greg a suit, I totally forgot to pick up my black one from the dry cleaners.  I almost had to wear grey.  How _embarrassing_.”  Several mourners shot them glares and Paula shushed him.

Rebecca ignored both, leaning in to Darryl’s shoulder and hissing in his ear.  “Who’s the big guy next to Greg?  The one who looks like he’s never worn a suit before?”

“Oh, that’s his sponsor.  Y’know, locally,” he hissed back.  “I think his name’s Traffic Cone.  Pavement?  Something road related.”  Darryl shrugged.  “He’s been over at Josh’s a lot – my Josh – to talk with Greg.”

Rebecca nodded, intrigued.  Her eyes darted to the picture of Marco on the marble church dais, to Greg in the front row, woodenly still, head bowed.  As Father Brah spoke, Hector leaned in from behind Greg and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, Greg’s mother handing her son something from her purse.  White Josh wiped his eyes while Josh’s – her Josh – shoulders heaved.  White Josh threw his arm around the shoulders of Chan as one Josh leaned against the other.

The scene made her heart ache.  She sometimes dismissed the depth of the relationship of these four men, but watching them huddle together for comfort reminded her what twenty years of friendship could do.  It was sweet to watch them rally around each other.

In the past week, she had not had much contact with Greg, though she had sent short texts to check in on him.  His responses had always been appreciative but frustratingly short and without detail.  She rolled her eyes skyward and turned to Darryl again, asking the question that she couldn’t stop thinking.  “How’s Greg been?”

“Greg’s been okay, given the circumstances,” Darryl whispered, uncharacteristically cagey.  “Getting through it.  Staying sober.”

Paula had turned her head to shush them again, but Darryl piqued her interest.  “There’s something you’re not saying, Darryl.  What is it?”

Darryl looked over to Paula, then to Greg at the front of the church, and then to White Josh.  His face reddened and he sighed.  “Look, Greg’s a pretty private guy.  My Josh asked me to keep anything I knew to myself.”  Rebecca’s face screwed up in frustration and Paula’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re just going to have to trust me on this, guys.  He’s getting through it.  He’s got a lot of good people around him.”

Rebecca huffed and leaned back against the pew, unsatisfied.  “Is he going to take that leave from Emory?” Rebecca asked suddenly.

Darryl’s head snapped in her direction.  “How did you know about that?” he hissed.

“Josh,” she clarified, crossing her arms.  “My Josh.  Not everyone is as good at keeping secrets as you are, Darryl.”

Darryl sighed and hung his head.  “Yeah, probably,” he admitted.  “There’s too much to be sorted out for him to do in Atlanta.”  Rebecca nodded, disappointed for Greg.  He deserved to be happy and Emory did that for him.  She stuck her hand in the pocket of her overcoat, running her finger along a papery edge tucked inside.  She needed to talk to him, sooner rather than later.  She had a plan.

********

Greg looked wooden and pale during the service and the reception line that followed.  His mother and the hulking, bearded man followed him into a side room after the last of the mourners had left.  Rebecca hung back, watching as Shauna enveloped her son in a warm hug, the man closing the door behind them.  He stood outside the door, his face falling naturally into a blank but imposing glare.

Rebecca ignored Paula’s pawing at her arm to leave the church and walked up to the man.  He briefly looked her over, eyes landing on her stature, her hair, and finally her face.  She opened her mouth to protest his gaze but he spoke first.

“You’re Rebecca, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice deep.  His expression did not change.

“Yeah,” she blurted.  “That’s kind of a weird thing to say, though.”  The man remained unmoved except to cock an eyebrow.

Undeterred, Rebecca continued.  “Oh-kay then,” she stated.  “So, I’m going to go talk to Greg because there’s something I need to give him.  Nice chat, though.”  She stepped around him but a slight shift of his weight put his massive form directly in her way.  “Look, I’ll only be a second,” she rationalized.

He had none of it.  “Greg’s with his mom right now.  He’ll be at the reception later.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed sarcastically.  “The Mountain does speak!  Does it also have a name?”  The man scowled.  “Maybe it’s Clegane?”

The man’s face screwed up in derisive confusion.  “What?”  
               

Rebecca shook her head.  “Nothing.  It’s _Game of Thrones_.  Gregor Clegane? The Mountain?  He’s a psychopath.”  Rebecca hadn’t thought that it was possible for the man’s expression to darken, but apparently, it was.  _There goes trying to charm this guy._   “Anyway,” she chirped, “if you could let me sneak by for just a second, I can give this thing to Greg and be on my way, ending this _highly_ uncomfortable conversation.”

The mountain did not move.

“Ugh. Fine, Headlight, or whatever your name is,” the man raised his eyebrows and continued glaring.  “I didn’t want it to come to this, but there’s a few hundos in it for you if you just step aside.”  He didn’t move.  “Just move over a smidge.  I’m a pretty tiny person, so you don’t even have to move that much.”

The man just shook his head.

“Dammit, why won’t you just let me through!”

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.  “My job right now is to not let anyone through that door because that’s what Greg asked me to do.”

Rebecca took her turn to cross her arms and roll her eyes.

The man sighed.  “Look, I know some of the history between you and Greg.  I even know what you did for him last week at the bar.”  She uncrossed her arms and stood up from her slouch, her glare softening.  “In case he hasn’t said it yet, thank you.”  Rebecca drew back, surprised.  “But there are times when a guy just needs his mom.  This is one of those times.”

Nevertheless, Rebecca persisted.  “Look …”

“No, you look,” he explained.  “All his life, Greg’s never had anyone to protect him.  He’s been the caretaker.  He cared for his dad.  He cared for his friends, especially that Josh guy.  He cared for you.”

“For me?” Rebecca pulled a face.  “He left!”  The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Yeah, for you,” he reiterated.  “How many conversations did he start with checking up on your welfare?”

Moments flashed through Rebecca’s mind:

                _“Are you lost?  The wine bar’s on Foothill” at Home Base;_

_“Rebecca?  What happened?  Are you okay?  Do you want to tell me what happened?” in front of her shattered patio door._

_“Are you okay?” after witnessing Josh and Valencia’s live sex show on the party bus._

_“Hey.  What’s going on?  You okay?” before she kissed him in the doorway of Home Base before their own three-day private sex show._

_“That took a while.  Everything okay?” as he stood drinking coffee in her kitchen as she painfully made her UTI’d self down the steps._

“Maybe a lot,” she admitted.

“Exactly.  No one in his life has ever stepped up to the plate and taken that off his shoulders.  It’s about damn time someone did.

“Guess what?  That’s what I’m here for.  It looks like his friends got the message last week, too.  He needs to not worry about bullshit.  He needs to grieve his father and stay sober.  So, yeah, Greg left West Covina.  He did it to get healthy and to follow his dream.”

Rebecca nodded silently, his words hitting a surprising chord.  “So, uh,” she began, squirming and gesturing to the sanctuary door.  “I guess I’m going to head over to the reception.”

The man nodded, his gaze softening.  “We’ll see you over there in a while,” he rumbled.

She turned on her heel and headed out of the church.  Except for Shauna’s car and a motorcycle, her Subaru was the last in the lot.  She sighed and shook her head, recalling the conversation.  _What the hell is that guy’s name?!_

*********

 

An hour had passed into the reception before Rebecca finally caught sight of Greg.  She had been surprised to see that the large basement at the Catholic church had been filled with mourners.  Marco’s trattoria had apparently been a cornerstone of the community years ago and those who remembered it had attended the funeral.  The hulking man that had been at Greg’s side during the ceremony stood near the door, surveying the scene watchfully.  The somber group kept to themselves at first, clustering into small groups as people seeking comfort often did.  The mood lightened thanks to the open and warm group of Barely Senior women loudly telling stories and cackling one another’s jokes.  Rebecca watched as Greg joined them for a time, sipping on a coke and listening to stories about his father for the last few months of his life.  He added his own comments and smiled along to their laughter.  Rebecca felt lighter as the sight of his smile.

When the women’s stories turned to more lascivious topics, Greg excused himself quickly, leaving the women laughing behind him.  Momentarily alone, Rebecca strode up to him.  He muttered something under his breath about his father as the love interest in an episode of “Golden Girls” when she interrupted him.

He tensed at the sight of her but quickly relaxed, his face betraying a sense of conflicted welcome.  “Rebecca,” he greeted.  “Thanks for coming.”

She nodded.  “This is the first time I’ve seen you by yourself for a while.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged sheepishly.  “Mom and the guys have been hovering a lot.  Trying to make sure I’m okay.”

“And?”

He considered for a second before shaking his head.  “Not even a little.”

Silence fell between them before Rebecca spoke again.  “It was a nice ceremony,” Rebecca.

“Yeah,” Greg nodded, glancing at the Golden Girls, who were still tittering.  “Father Brah did a good job.  Dad hadn’t been to church in years, but Father Brah made it work.”  Greg’s mouth formed a slight smirk as his eyebrows shot up in amusement. “He balked when I told him that Dad wanted some of his ashes spread on the property of the local Olive Garden, though.”

“The Olive Garden?”

Greg’s lips quirked up in a fond smirk.  “He called them … well, I won’t repeat in a church what he called them, but he always hated them for serving shitty food and calling it Italian.  He wanted to haunt them forever.”  Rebecca snorted and Greg smiled.  This time the smile met his eyes.

His face sobered, though, and his eyes suddenly dropped to his feet.  “Look, Rebecca, about last week.”  He looked up at her and his shoulders resumed the weight they had been carrying for the past week.  “I’m sorry I put you through that.  That was the lowest I’d been in a long time – maybe ever – and it really helped having you there.  Thanks.”

“Oh,” she breathed as he stood, shifting uncomfortably in front of her.  She nodded, looking down at the floor.  “Gregor Clegane said that it helped.”

Greg looked confused.  “What?  The Mountain?”

Rebecca nodded to the man himself standing off to the side, arms crossed and expression off-putting.  “Big and scary over there.”  Greg looked over to where she nodded.  “What’s his name?  Skid Mark?”  The joke tumbled out unintentionally.

Greg’s bark of laughter drew glances from people nearby.  Rebecca’s heart warmed to hear it.  “Not ‘Skid Mark’, Rebecca.  Guardrail.  I’m going to tell him you said that, though.”

“Ugh.  Please don’t.  I’m pretty sure he already hates me.”

Greg shrugged.  “Guardrail hates everybody.  It’s part of his charm.”  Greg waved at the man and Guardrail lifted his scowl long enough to wave back.

Rebecca and Greg stood in awkward silence for a couple of seconds before Greg gestured over his shoulder.  “I should probably get going.”  He put his hand on her arm.  “Thanks for coming, Rebecca.  Thanks for, y’know, everything.”  He turned to go, but she reached out to grab his arm.

“I meant what I said, you know, Greg.  You have a lot of people rooting for you.”  She dug through the pocket of her overcoat, her hands finding the hard edge she had been fingering during the ceremony.  She drew the small piece of cardstock out of her pocket and held it out.  He took it with his casted hand. 

“What’s this?” he asked, flipping the business card around to read it.

“It’s the name of an estate lawyer that specializes in cleaning up the messes people sometime leave behind.”  Greg looked at her.  “So their families can get on with their lives.”

He looked up at her, disbelief painted across his face.  “Rebecca, I can’t afford a lawyer to handle …”

She interrupted him, waving him off.  “I cashed in a ton – “ she rolled her eyes, “like, a _ton_ \-- of favors and talked her into doing it pro bono so you can go back to school ASAP.”

His face flashed through so many emotions at once: hope, gratitude, surprise and fondness and then suddenly he pulled her into his arms.  She smelled his deodorant and aftershave, but the smoky whiskey smell she used to associate with him was replaced with the scent of a newly-pressed suit.  She breathed in deeply, reminded of the what-could-have-beens.  She wrapped her arms around his waist.

When he finally pulled away, he looked down at her.  He went to tuck a lock of hair out of her face, but stopped himself before he could complete the intimate gesture.  “Thank you, Rebecca,” he whispered, staring into her eyes.  _Good God,_ she thought.  _Those eyes._

He turned to go, pocketing the business card, but Rebecca grabbed his arm again before he could leave.  He turned into her touch.  “Hey, Greg, uh, do you think, maybe, we could talk on the phone sometimes?  When you’re back at Emory?  I miss hearing your voice.”

Greg’s face fell.  “I would love to,” he admitted sadly.  “But I don’t think I can, Rebecca.”

“I can call you outside your study times or …”

“It’s not a schedule thing, Rebecca.”  He glanced around to ensure they still spoke privately.  “My feelings for you haven’t changed.”  Rebecca felt the warmth in her chest returning, even as Greg continued.  “Talking with you, even over the phone … that’s just not something I can do right now.”

The warmth hardened in her throat.  “But, we can’t even be friends?”

Greg frowned.  “Someday, maybe, Rebecca, but not right now.  Right now, I have to concentrate on making sure what happened last week at the restaurant doesn’t happen again.”  He reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out his current chip, showing it to her.  “I don’t have to get rid of this one because of you.  I will never, ever forget that, Rebecca.”

He hugged her again, whispering his thanks in her ear before turning to leave, his hand lingering on her arm.  She watched him go, her breath hitching in her throat as the scene reminded her powerfully of his exit from her life at the airport.  Paula came up behind her, placing her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders.  “You okay, Cookie?”

“It’s like I’m losing him again, Mama.”

Paula sighed.  “It’s for the best, Rebecca.  You did something wonderful for him.  I’m proud of you.”

“He doesn’t even want to talk on the phone.”

“Let him go, Rebecca.  Just let him go.  He’s bettering himself.  He’s making something out of his life.”

“I know, Mama.  I know.  But I still miss him.”

*********

Sitting at a table in basement of the Catholic church, Hector had been keeping a close eye on Greg as he spoke with those who had come to pay their respects.  He himself had chatted briefly with Shauna, Kevin and Chris, but mostly he had stuck to the table with the Joshes, content in his own thoughts as they all shared stories of Marco Serrano growing up.

The past week had been tough.  After finding Greg with a drink in his hand and Rebecca nearby, Hector and White Josh had hustled him back to the hotel room.  Greg had been embarrassed and ashamed on top of wrestling with his father’s death.  At their urging, he had picked up the phone and called Guardrail.

The hulking biker had shown up within minutes, and the guys had migrated to the lobby of the hotel to give the two some privacy as they talked.  A couple of hours later, Greg had checked out of the hotel and moved his stuff into White Josh’s extra room.

In the church basement, the three of them looked at each other, still reeling from the last few days.  Josh had tears in his eyes and he stood up and left to call his mom.  White Josh and Hector had simply met each other’s eyes and shook their heads, sighing.

Hector’s eyebrows had raised when Rebecca Bunch had bustled into the room.  Hector and White Josh exchanged a tense look.

In the past week, Greg had barely mentioned Rebecca.  He hadn’t talked about her presence in the hotel that day and hadn’t said anything about what had clearly been an emotionally-charged discussion between the two of them in the bar.

Josh, in his infinite wisdom, had attempted to bring it up during the first night Greg had spent at WhiJo’s, mentioning again that Rebecca had wanted to get in contact with him.  Greg had answered curtly and the topic quickly dropped.

With Hector and White Josh, Greg had been barely more forthcoming.  He admitted to still having feelings for her but that too much stood in the way – school, distance, recovery.  And Josh.

Hector got it and it seemed that Greg had adapted to the new normal, or at least understood it.  No one brought her up again.

“What do we do?” Hector asked, watching as Rebecca’s sharp eyes focused on Greg sitting at the table with his father’s neighbors.  Conquests?  _Damn, Marco Serrano was smooth_.

White Josh shrugged, showing unusual restraint when it came to Rebecca.  “I don’t know, man.  Let’s see how this plays out.”

“Really?”

White Josh shrugged again.  “Yeah.  She kept him from drinking until we got there last time.  Maybe this will be good.”

Hector looked dubious.

Greg and Rebecca went off to the side of the hall to chat, his and White Josh’s eyes following them intently.  Rebecca handed something to Greg, who looked at it, then looked at her.  To Hector’s surprise, Greg then pulled her suddenly into a deep hug.

Both WhiJo and Hector tensed and inhaled sharply, Hector ready to stand up to protect Greg from whatever was going on, but White Josh’s hand on his arm stopped him.  Rebecca left the room shortly thereafter, Greg’s eyes trailing after her before he sighed.

He turned back to them with an odd expression: part longing, part exhaustion, but a new spark there that neither WhiJo nor Hector had seen since he left for Atlanta three months ago.  He held a business card in his casted hand as he smirked, striding across the room to settle into a chair next to them.  “What was that about?” Hector asked.

Greg’s smirk grew underneath his exhaustion as he tossed the business card on the table.  “Rebecca may have just come through, guys.  I may be able to get back to school after all.”

*********

After the funeral, Greg didn’t get back to WhiJo’s apartment until late in the night, hours after the last mourners had finished telling stories and commiserating.

Letting himself in to the apartment, he closed the door quietly behind him, expecting WhiJo to be asleep already.  Probably for the better, too, as the emotion of the day had already gotten to him.  He could feel his shoulders sag and his eyes felt scratched, like they did when they were bloodshot and red-rimmed.  His hair was sticking out at odd angles, having run this hands through it too many times.  His collar was undone and his tie loosened.

He turned to find WhiJo and Hector standing from their seats on the leather sofa, abandoning the Xbox controllers as the edged strains of the video game emerged from the speakers.  They had removed their formal clothes and Greg felt suddenly uncomfortable in his.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, pulling off his suit coat wearily.

“Hey,” the guys answered in unison.

Greg loosened his tie as he glanced around the room.  “Where’s Chan?”

“He, uh …” Hector began, looking trapped.

“Had to go,” WhiJo finished.  “He had … something to take care of …”

Greg winced, stale exasperation mingling with acceptance.  He could guess where Chan was: with Rebecca.  Greg unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, folding them up his arm as far as the cast would allow.  He sat down on the couch and grabbed a waiting controller, maneuvering the object until it fit into his casted hand passably.  “Nice.   _Borderlands_.  I call the Assassin.”  Hector and WhiJo joined him on either side of the couch but didn’t pick up the controllers.  He glanced at each skeptically.  “Guys, you’re kind of creeping me out, here.”

“We couldn’t find you after the reception.  It freaked us out.”

“Yeah.  We wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The exhaustion Greg felt, the bone-deep sadness of losing his dad, slammed into him again with almost physical force and he closed his eyes.  _What was it about that question?  It gets to me every time._

He looked at Hector and WhiJo.  Their faces reflected nothing but concern: masculine, bro-type concern, but concern nonetheless.  He’d known them for over a decade.  _If they were going to bail, they would have done it by know_ , he thought.  He decided to go for the heart of the matter.

“No.  I’m not okay,” he admitted.  “But Mom and I had a good, long talk.  Scattered the ashes.  She wanted me to stay at her place tonight, but I kind of wanted to stay here in West Covina.”

Hector and WhiJo looked at him, baffled.

“I know,” Greg admitted wryly.  “The irony doesn’t escape me.  But before she dropped me off here,” Greg smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Mom and I even took a little trip to the Olive Garden.”

“DUDE!”  They exclaimed at the same time.

Greg grinned and nodded.  “Oh yeah.  We did just what Dad asked us to do.”

“Dude!  That’s disgusting.  I’m never eating there again!”

Greg nodded, still puffing.  “That’s kind of the point, Hector.  Dad’s going to make sure that place goes under within a year – mark my words.”

Greg picked up his controller again, awkwardly picking his character.  The guys picked up the other two controllers.  The three were quickly engrossed, teasing each other as their respective characters died in spectacular fashion.  Greg put his controller down briefly when the latest demise involved a corrugated tin roof and a maniac with a chainsaw.  He carefully did not look away from the screen as his character reloaded.  “Guys, I …” he stopped, his chest suddenly tightening.  He swallowed past the tension and pushed on.  “Thanks for being around for the last week and a half.  I know I was an ass sometimes, so I wanted to make sure you knew I appreciated it.”

Hector looked over, surprised, while WhiJo gave no signs of hearing him except for a satisfied smile.  Hector’s character gave a strangulated scream as it was run over by a Humvee and Hector cursed, his eyes darting back to the screen.

“Anytime, man,” WhiJo said.

“Yeah, man,” Hector echoed, swinging an arm around Greg’s shoulders as his character reloaded.

“So tell us, Greg,” WhiJo asked.  “What’s Atlanta like?  I was thinking about heading out there for a visit sometime.”

“Yeah?” Greg brightened, even as his character was thrown off the top of an electrical tower.

“Yeah.  I’ve never been to the East Coast.”

“Me neither,” Hector agreed.

Greg smiled, suddenly eager.  “Well, my apartment is tiny but I’d love to have you guys. I could show you the campus and the school, and some of the sights.  Atlanta’s even farther from the beach than West Covina, but there are some great hiking trails or museums we could hit.  It’d be great.”

The guys grinned again, glad to hear Greg’s excitement. 

“One thing, though,” Greg said, not looking away from the screen.  “You’ll have to bring lots of clothes.”

WhiJo looked at him.  “What?  Why?  I thought you said it was hot and humid there.”

Greg face lit up with a smirk.  “No washing machines, remember?  You guys are going to stink to high heaven.”

Hector pushed Greg’s shoulder into WhiJo as he laughed, and WhiJo buried his elbow into Greg’s side.  He laughed openly as his character in the video game finally succeeded in taking down Hector’s.  Hector’s loud protests warmed his heart.  Surrounded by his friends, Greg let himself relax in their presence.


	16. Chapter 16

Two weeks after Greg’s return to West Covina, Josh drove him back to the airport.  He felt weird doing it by himself. The last time he saw Greg in the airport, it was all three of them.  This time it was just him saying goodbye.  This time, with Greg’s dad … well, Greg didn’t have an anchor to his hometown.  To Josh.

“So -- my adviser,” Greg chatted while Josh, lost in his thoughts, refocused, “he’s a little bit of an over-sharer.  I mean I really don’t need to hear about his colonscopy, but whatever.  He talked to the dean for me.  They usually don’t let you miss two weeks _and_ finish the semester, but they’re going to allow it as long as I don’t miss any more classes.”

Josh looked over to him as he drove down the highway.  “I’m sorry about your dad, Greg.  I don’t know if I said that before.”  Tears sprung to Josh’s eyes and the beginnings of enthusiasm coloring Greg’s voice fell as Greg’s face collapsed back into the blank mask it had taken on the last two weeks.  “I didn’t know how hard it was going to be,” Josh stuttered.  “I can only imagine what it must be like for you.”

“Josh …”

“I mean, you got that lawyer to do the legal paperwork stuff, or whatever, but your friends, your mom is still _here_ , in West Covina.  Lots of people miss you here.”  Josh glanced from the road over to Greg, who looked back at him with an odd expression that mixed sadness and exasperation.

Greg sighed and scrubbed his face with his good hand.  “I miss you and the guys, too, Josh.  Sometimes, every once in a while, I miss this hell hole of a town, but usually when I need a break from Southern accents and food – I mean, seriously, grits?  It’s like oatmeal that hasn’t figured out how to _be_ oatmeal.”

Josh raised his eyebrows and nodded along blankly.

Greg continued.  “But I can’t stay here, Josh.  I have to go back to Emory and get my degree.”

“That’s the part I don’t get, Greg.  Why?  You can finish your degree here, at night school, like you were doing.”

Greg looked at him again with that same odd expression.  Then he turned his head and looked out through the windshield, tapping his casted hand against the armrest of Josh’s old Camaro.  “Josh, you really don’t understand why I’m leaving to go back?  Why I left in the first place?”

Josh shook his head emphatically.  “No, I don’t.  West Covina isn’t that bad.  It’s kind of awesome sometimes.”

“It’s not just about …” Greg began before cutting himself off.  He didn’t want to argue anymore.  “Josh,” he tried, “you ever have something, a dream, a goal, that you wanted for yourself?”

Josh shook his head, looking bewildered.  “No, man.  I mean, my parents just told me I had to go to college, so I went to college.”  He paused, thinking.  “Oh!  I wanted that job at Aloha and I got that which is really cool.  Like that?”

Greg shook his head.  “Not the same thing, Chan.  This goal, this dream has always been just out of my reach for a long _, long_ , _time_.”  He stage-whispered the last two words.  “I finally get the chance to go and I sacrificed some huge things to get there.”  Greg’s jaw worked and his voice quieted.  “I lost time with my dad, Josh.”  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 

Josh fought confusion as he pulled into a parking space at the airport. 

Greg continued.  “West Covina just reminds me of when I could do nothing except stock bottles or get lost in one.  It reminds me of being trapped.  At school, I can leave that behind.  I can do something with my life.”

“Dude,” Josh interrupted.  “West Covina wasn’t all bad.  We had some pretty good times.  Remember senior year of high school …”

“Josh, we’re not in high school anymore.  We haven’t been for a long time.”

“I know that, Serrano, but things haven’t changed _that_ much since high school.”

“That’s exactly my point, Chan.”

Josh fell silent, trying to understand Greg’s meaning.

“Look, Josh,” Greg’s voice lightened.  “Hector and WhiJo are coming out for a visit in a couple months, after finals.  Come out with them.  It’ll be cramped, but I think I have an air mattress stashed somewhere.”

Josh nodded his head blandly, still digesting what Greg meant.  “Yeah, okay.  That sounds great,” he agreed.

Before Josh knew it, he had hugged Greg goodbye again and watched his back ascend the escalator to his flight.  His life.  Or goals.  Or whatever.  Dazed, he turned and walked back to his car.  Starting the car, he wondered what he drove back to.  Rebecca?  Was Rebecca his goal?  Was that what Greg meant by a goal?  He shifted his car into reverse.  Maybe it was, he thought.  Maybe that is what Greg meant.

*********

Several weeks later, Rebecca sat at her kitchen table staring lovingly at the Garfinkle ring perched dramatically on her ring finger.  Josh had finally proposed after they got back from New York and they were happy.  Their picture was displayed prominently on Instagram as proof.  She had two weeks to plan the perfect wedding and they were happy and she totally understood why Josh wasn’t helping her more with setting everything up.

A ring on your finger from the man of your dreams, planning the perfect wedding, and success in your career: this is what happiness was supposed to be and totally what it felt like.  Ergo, if Rebecca felt frustrated or overwhelmed or put-out or in any way _un_ happy, it couldn’t be about her or Josh.  Because they were happy together.  Totally.  And.  Completely.

It must, therefore, be about the guest list staring her in the face on her laptop: specifically, the name that appeared under “S”.  Rebecca sighed and leaned her chin in her hands.  Greg Serrano.  That guy had a habit of always turning up in Rebecca’s thoughts.  She had said goodbye to the guy.  Then his dad died and he came back to town for a couple of weeks.  It had reopened a door she had thought had closed.  She looked at his name on the screen again, black letters on an otherwise white background.  She highlighted it and it reversed, his name suddenly bright against darkness.

She loved Josh with all her heart.  He was her everything, she reminded herself.  He was the sun that shone its brightness in the dark corners.  His smile made her smile.  His laughter made her laugh.  His wit -- well, no.  His intelligence -- ugh, not that either.  His sweetness –- there we go -- made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Rebecca’s eyes flicked to the highlighted name on the screen.  She hadn’t heard anything from Greg since he went back to Emory.  Josh had let slip that he had started classes again but that he couldn’t miss any more that semester.  Her estate lawyer friend had confirmed that the probate of Marco Serrano’s will was progressing but wouldn’t give her any more details.  She had heard nothing from the man himself, though.  _This surprises you?_   The wise voice pointed out.  _He needs some time._

She should remove Greg from the guest list.  Not inviting Greg was for his own good, she told herself.  After his dad, after starting a new life, after almost relapsing, he didn’t need to attend the wedding of his best friend and his old flame.  He couldn’t miss classes to come out and probably couldn’t swing the plane ticket right now anyway.

She also realized that she couldn’t marry Josh with Greg watching.  She didn’t want to see that sad, blank mask settle over his face again, like it had at the Applebee’s bar surrounded by cheap Americana.  She couldn’t hurt him again.

She looked back at the screen and hit the “delete” key and his name disappeared off the guest list.  The spreadsheet automatically shifting upwards as if he had never been there to begin with.  She felt a strange emptiness at the action.

If Josh ever noticed Greg’s name was missing, he never said anything.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been overwhelmed with the response to this story. Thank you for all of your kind words! I enjoy so many writers' works on this site, so your comments and kudos mean a lot.

Over the two and half months he had been back at Emory, Greg had buried himself in his studies.  Catching up from missing two weeks of classes had been painful, a long series of late night study sessions as well as early morning reading sessions.  He sat in one of the study desks of the library, the only place he could concentrate without a classmate or a professor stopping by to check in.  Apparently his adviser had been kind enough to alert some folks to his dad’s … well, what had happened.  He knew they meant well, but, more than anything, he just wanted to be treated like the rest of his class.  With catching up on classes and projects, fielding phone calls from the lawyer handling his dad’s estate, making weekly group AA meetings _and_ weekly one-on-one meetings with Barry – he had needed to up their frequency – as well as those networking get togethers that career planning assured would make or break his career, not to mention actually mourning his father, he felt exhausted.  Overwhelmed.  Like he needed a drink.

He hadn’t, though.  He’d gotten close a few times, throwing his books aside and pulling on his jacket, striding across his apartment to pull open the door.  On the way out, his eyes would fall on the picture of him and his dad from his dad’s apartment, the two of them smiling.  He would remember that people were rooting for him and he would pause in the entryway of his apartment.  Each time, he ripped off his jacket and called Barry.

He no longer felt the constriction of his chest every time he thought about Rebecca, either.  Maybe a part of him would always love her, but that part had faded away as he focused on how to move his life forward without the constant support of his dad.  As a result, Greg had changed and he actually liked who he was becoming.  When he thought of Rebecca, the heartbreak and the could-have-beens were replaced with a general, warm fondness.

Greg dug his nose deeper into his laptop.  Stacks of books surrounded him and his eyes squinted against the computer’s light.  Next week he had his exam for Managerial Statistics, his most difficult class so far.  He had to finish his final project for Strategy Formulation two days after that and his group was _not_ cooperating.  He leaned closer into his laptop to find that he had typed the same term twice already.  He sighed.  _So help me, if I have to read the words “operational management” or “queuing systems” one more time, I’m going to throw a book across the room_.

His cell phone lit up and a huge, sloppy kiss sounded from its speakers.  Another student in the stacks shot him a nasty look, which he returned.  Hector had jokingly installed the sound as the alert for his text messages before Greg left West Covina a couple of months back.  It just seemed so very Hector that he had to keep it.  Greg glanced at his watch: 9 p.m.  He could use a study break anyway.

“Yo Greggie!  Wanted to keep you up to date on the happenings over here in Crazy Town!”  Hector texted.  Greg sighed again, tucking his pen behind his ear.

“Do you have to?” he texted his reply.  “There’s enough crazy in grad school.  You ever tell a Southerner you don’t like fried chicken?  They look at you like you punched a toddler.”

“No, man.  You’re going to want to know this.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Three dots appeared and Greg shut his laptop, reaching for his coke.  Hector’s stories never failed to be legendary.

“So … Josh proposed to Rebecca and then left her at the altar to go to seminary school and Rebecca has gone on a rampage.  Like, hard core rampage.”  Greg had to re-read the text three times to process it.  _Wait, what?_ In the meantime, Hector came through with another text.  “We didn’t want to bother you with stuff earlier but WhiJo thought we should let you know.”

Greg blinked again, trying to understand.  “So you thought the best way to reach out to me was by text message?”  Three dots appeared on his screen, disappeared, and then reappeared.

Then they disappeared again. 

“Screw this,” Greg muttered, garnering a look from the same nearby student.  He shrugged an apology and stood, ducking into a private corner as he stabbed at the phone to call Hector.

“Yo,” Hector’s voice sheepishly echoed through the phone’s speakers.

“WhiJo there too?  Good.  Put me on speaker.”  He heard the tell-tale click.  “Okay, just so I’m clear,” Greg summarized.  “In the two months since I left West Covina, Josh – a guy who had a girlfriend for _fifteen years_ and couldn’t pull the trigger – proposed to Rebecca and planned a wedding.  That was quick.”

“The planning was all Rebecca until Valencia stepped in to take over.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief.  “Valencia planned the wedding.  Valencia hated Rebecca.”

“V actually did a really good job with it,” WhiJo chimed in.

“Not surprising, actually,” Greg agreed, then refocused himself with a shake of his head.  “So they planned a wedding and Josh _blew it off_?”

“Yeeeeeaaah,” WhiJo drew out.  “Josh went straight to the seminary from the country club.”  


“A seminary. _”_   His voice was flat.

“Yeah.  Been there for the last month.”

“A month.  This all happened a month ago and no one told me?”

Awkward silence echoed out of the speakers.  “We thought that maybe you had enough on your plate,” Hector explained quietly.  “With your dad and all.”

The bottom fell out of Greg’s anger and he deflated, leaning up against the wall.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay,” he breathed.  “Okay, you have a point.”  He paused.  “What did Josh have to say about it?”

WhiJo answered him.  “Josh hasn’t said much, just that he wants to have a goal or something.  Do something with his life.  I explained to him that fitness goals may be what he needs … “ Greg pinched the bridge of his nose as WhiJo trailed on.  Greg recognized his own words from their ride to the airport coming out of Josh’s mouth.

Greg took a breath.  “So why tell me now?”

“Well, it’s kind of about Rebecca,” Hector floated.  Greg’s stomach turned.  He could only imagine her response to being left at the altar.  “She’s been trying to go after Josh, her girl group by her side.”

“Girl group?”  Greg could picture the nonchalant Hector shrug. 

“Yeah.  Her, Heather, Valencia and - what’s her name? – Angry Mom.”

“Paula.  Her name’s Paula,” WhiJo provided.

“Really?” Greg asked.  “Heather’s involved?”

“Uh, not really.  I think she tapped out early.  But things are pretty fucked up.”

“Okay, so here’s what I’m not getting.  I’ve talked to you guys a lot on the phone in the last month.  You’re coming out to visit in a few weeks after finals.  Why get me involved now?”  His voice flattened.  He _really_ wished he had stayed studying those damn queuing systems.

WhiJo’s voice seemed hesitant.  “Because we have no clue what to do.  You always cleaned up Josh’s messes.”

“And we kind of miss you.”  Hector admitted.  “But not just for this reason.  For other ones, too,” he added.

“Thanks?” Greg answered sarcastically.  “Guys, I don’t even know where to start with this.  Maybe Josh needs to figure it on his own.  It’s possible he’s had too many things cleaned up for him to learn how to do it himself.”

“Yeah,” WhiJo breathed, nearly under his breath.  “That’s not going to end well.”

“Then you guys need to stay out of the crosshairs.  I imagine Rebecca’s wrath is powerful.  Stay out of it until Josh can figure out how to handle it.”

They reluctantly agreed before promising to talk soon.  Greg returned to his little table and attempted to focus on studying, but his attention continually drifted back to his phone and to the happenings in West Covina.  _God, I’m glad I don’t live there anymore_ , he thought.  The longer he lived his new life, the more dysfunctional West Covina appeared, personal opinion on fried chicken and other local delicacies notwithstanding.

Still, he worried about Rebecca.  He had surprised himself that he had felt no longing twang, no heartbroken stab when Hector had told him that she and Josh had gotten engaged.  He was a different man now and if anything, it reinforced his decision to leave West Covina.  When he thought of Rebecca now, he didn’t think of their sex cocoon.  Instead, he remembered her voice telling him people were proud of him.  It was her hand on his arm, pushing the whiskey away from his mouth.  It was her presenting him with the name of the lawyer that would handle his dad’s estate so that Greg could get back to Atlanta.  It was her giving him the space he asked for, even if he had been a dick about it. 

Sometimes friends needed to back off and let people figure things out on their own and sometimes friends needed to jump in with both feet.  She had been a good friend to him that week from hell.  He should return the favor. 

He opened the last text message he sent her – a brief line two months ago letting her know he was flying back to Atlanta and thanking her again.  She had wished him safe travels.  “Hey,” he typed.  “Are you okay?  I just heard what happened.”

The long response he received back consisted of harsh commentary of bros in general and Josh Chan in specific.  She called him “your asshole best friend,” but only when she felt diplomatic.  Otherwise, he had heard tamer insults from a biker.  Greg took no joy in realizing he had been right: Rebecca on a rampage was scary.

“Do you know how he justified all this bullshit?!” she typed.  “He said that he ‘found God.’  FOUND GOD!  Like some omnipotent God even exists that moves people around like pawns and always ALWAYS reinforces the patriarchy, pushing women down until the only permissible role is as producer of sons!”  The rant stopped and Greg watched, eye brows raised as three dots appeared before she continued.  “What about agency?!  People can make their own decisions in life and not rely on some floating, bearded man in the sky, unless, apparently, you have half a brain and your name is JOSHUA FUCKING CHAN!”

_Wow,_ Greg thought wryly.  _How can her thumbs move that fast?_   “Is that what Josh said?” he interrupted her diatribe.  “That he found God?”

“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” she responded.

“Where was He hiding?  Under the bed?”  The three blinking dots at the bottom of the screen stopped.  Greg grinned and continued.  “Maybe He was in the closet.  THAT would prove problematic for most of the world’s religions.”

The dots appeared again and a message finally came through.  A single smiling emoji appeared, followed by, “It would go a long way to explain the circumstances of a virgin birth.”

 “True!  Maybe Mary was just a surrogate and history got it waaaaay wrong,” he texted.

This time, a laughing emoji appeared.  “Y’know, that’s the first time I’ve laughed in over a month.  Mostly I’ve just screamed or cried.”

Greg smiled again.  “At least I’m good for something.  But seriously, are you okay?”

“Who knows anymore,” she texted and his brows furrowed.  “But I feel better than I did ten minutes ago.  Thanks.”

“Anytime, Rebecca.  Text me whenever you need a friend.”

“Seriously?  Like, I can do that now?  We can do the friend thing?”

“Yeah,” he typed, smiling.  Then, because he hated emojis, he typed “:)”

She sent him another fucking emoji: a thumbs up.

“I hate emojis,” he texted.

“I know, Serrano,” she responded.  Then she sent him twelve more.

*********

A few weeks later, Greg beamed as he hit “send” on an email to the guys, Darryl, his mother, and Rebecca with his grades from his first semester of grad school.  Despite everything, he was near the top of his class.  He hadn’t thought he could do it, but he had. 

He was so proud.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, ladies and gentlemen. Here's the next chapter. We're getting into the home stretch of this fic, as this chapter may function as the last full chapter prior to the epilogue. Please let me know what you think!

In a perfect world, Greg would be able to line up a plum summer internship solely on the strength of his first semester grades.  Unfortunately, this was not a perfect world.  So, despite being in the thick of the mid-second semester press, and despite growing to hate networking Happy Hours -- glorified cattle calls that they were -- he had tucked away his books and laptop and threw on a suit.  These things tended to weed out the asshole students that had never learned basic social skills.  His mind flicked to his class’s leading dickhead, an ivy league douchebag named Chad who thought the poverty line was about four times higher than it actually was.  Chad sucked at these networking things.  Greg took some solace in that fact, because he was actually okay at them.  Sort of.

Standing outside the door, Greg straightened his tie.  _C’mon, Serrano_ , he told himself.  _Get your mocktail from the bar and be charming._   He opened the door with his best please-give-me-a-job-for-the-summer smile.  Armed with some suggestions from Rebecca, Greg had surprised himself by not sucking at these things despite the open bar.  Not having a drink in your hand invited uncomfortable questions, so Greg had learned to order a tonic and lime, or a coke with lime, or really just about anything with a lime wedge shoved in it.  It looked enough like alcohol to stave off any unnecessary questions.

Leaning back against the bar, he sipped his coke with lime and surveyed the room.  Men and women in professional dress milled about, largely smiling blankly while shaking hands and exchanging business cards.  They talked up either their qualifications or their firms, hoping to get a job, to fill a hole in their staff, or simply to get a free drink or two or three.  _Dad would have hated this_ , Greg thought fondly.  He longed to call him up to make fun of half the people at this thing.  There was the guy who seemed to think that tuxedo pants where the same as suit pants, the woman whose hair was pulled back so far she looked like she was permanently surprised, and the guy whose pants were so tight, they advertised his disdain for functional undergarments.  _Good God, man_ , Greg thought, averting his eyes.

Greg exchanged pleasantries with a blond woman in a navy blue suit who came to get a refill on her chardonnay.  He wandered over to the food table that displayed charcuterie and crudité platters.  He heaped hummus on his plate and snagged some mozzarella and pepperoni.

A grey-haired man interrupted him as he eyed up the olive plate.  “There’s always a good spread at these things, huh?”

Small talk led the man – Jim Taylor – to puff up his firm and how they needed ‘smart, savvy professionals’ like Greg for the future of their company.  But when he steered the conversation towards Greg’s previously employment, Jim’s interest cooled.  Eventually, the man walked off without even getting Greg’s email.  _God I hate these things_ , he thought.  There was never much to tell about working in a bar prior to business school, especially at the Harvard of the South.

He stabbed several Kalamata olives with a toothpick before heading back to the bar for another mocktail.  A brunette woman sidled up next to him, her ivory suit a welcome change in the sea of black and grey and navy blue.  Her eyes flicked over his plate before looking at him, her warm brown eyes flashing across his face.

“You Italian?” she asked.  Like so many others in the room, her Southern accent drawled out her words.  She surprised him with the direct question.

“Um, yeah?  My dad’s side.  How’d you know?”

She nodded.  She glanced down at his plate again.  “Everything you’re eating leans Mediteranean.”  She shrugged.  “I took a leap.”

He furrowed his brow.  “You got that off what food I put on my plate?  I could just be an admirer of the mafia.”

She matched his smirk.  “You’d live in New Jersey if that were the case,” she parried.  “I’m paid to notice trends.  Sometimes you can find out a lot about a person just by observing them.”  She extended a hand, smiling politely.  “Caroline O’Connor.”

“Greg Serrano.”

“Like the ham.”  The corner of her mouth quirked up and Greg had the distinct impression she was analyzing his reaction.  Testing him.

He laughed again.  “Yes, I suppose.  Like the ham.  Or the town in Italy where my grandparents grew up.  One of the two.”

She nodded, her smile widening.  _I guess I passed_ , he thought.

“I’m guessing that since you’re here, you’re looking for a job.”

He smiled at her directness.    “An internship, actually.”  He looked at her analytically.  “Y’know, you’re the first person to actually come out and admit that’s the only reason any of us are here.  I thought we were supposed to go around and ‘network’, whatever that means.”

She smirked again, shrugging.  “No one really knows what ‘networking’ means.  I think it means pretending to get drunk around complete strangers so that it’s easier to brag about yourself.  In any case, I’m good at it.”

Greg laughed.  “Well, I can’t argue with you on that.”

They chatted for several minutes, him talking about his interests in the logistics of macro-economics and her speaking about her job predicting domestic markets.  Her firm was looking for summer interns to work both locally and in their New York City office.  Greg’s heart pounded when she mentioned New York.  To be paid to work in New York City, if only for the summer, would be a dream come true.

As the conversation turned to his professional past, as it inevitably did, he felt relief when her phone rang.  She excused herself, her drawl heavy, asking him to email her his resume and to finish the conversation.

The next day, Greg sent the requested email, begrudgingly attaching his resume.  He sighed.  The conversation with Caroline had been hopeful, but once employers saw “bartender” as his last position, he didn’t tend to get an email back.

A week and half later, Caroline O’Connor clearly hadn’t changed that pattern.

*********

Greg’s disappointment spilled over at his next group meeting: the overly cheery conference room of a nearby daycare.  He didn’t typically talk much at group meetings, instead huddling in the middle of the room where he could watch and listen, offering what snarky support he could.  That meeting, though, he had something to say.

“I moved here to escape my past and to finally _find my life_!” he blurted, about halfway through his very loud “sharing” that lampooned just about everyone he saw at the networking happy hour the week before, including Caroline O’Connor.  “It’s like all they care about is my past.  These people are supposed to be my professional future.  Yet everyone around me is _at least_ tipsy and I’m tense as hell.  I want some rum in that coke I’m drinking, but I know _that_ won’t end well. 

“How the hell am I supposed to answer those questions?  ‘Sorry, I don’t have the experience my class mates have because every facet of my life was spent with alcohol: serving it, drinking it, or cleaning up after it.’  When I wasn’t working as a _bartender_ ,” he spat the word with venom, “I was taking care of my dad.  My free time was spent trying to get numb.”

He took a breath into the silence, looking down at his feet and then at the front of the room.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just that I’ve accomplished a lot to be here.  My dad died about four months ago, and that really messed me up.  Like, really messed me up, but I got through it with help from good friends and you guys.”  He gestured to the room at large.  “I miss Dad a lot, but I stayed sober, barely, and still got some great grades.  That has to count for something.  Right?”  He shook his head, his jaw clenching as the anger drained into frustration.  “Anyway.  Thanks for listening.”  He grunted, then sat down.

He barely listened to the other people who shared that night, his mind whirling.  His past.  His future.  His dad.  His addiction.  His career.

Following the metting, he joined Barry and his friend Phylicia, a short, matronly woman who reminded Greg a lot of a female Kevin, only a lot less boisterous and a lot more sarcastic.  It was a good mix.

Greg grabbed a Boston crème donut and tore into it, his anger still simmering.  Phylicia hugged him, rubbing her hand along his back.  “Why don’t we get some lunch on Tuesday, Greg?  You and me.  We can go to that little mom and pop that you like, huh?  With the pecan pie?”

“Pecan pie is objectively the best thing about the South.  Just so you know.”    Phylicia grinned.  They made plans and Greg turned, his cup of burnt coffee hot in his hand.

He moved to avoid a woman in a long, loose flowing skirt and light-colored sweater.  He looked up to acknowledge her politely and his throat tightened.  He nearly dropped his cup.

Standing in front of him, short dark hair swept back away from her face, was Caroline O’Connor.  She looked very different with no make up and casual clothes and it took him a second to realized she was the same woman he had just, in part, ranted to a room full of people about.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought.  He may have said it out loud.  He wasn’t really sure.

“Greg Serrano, was it?  Like the town in Italy?” she began lightly.  Her Southern accent was playful and Greg couldn’t tell if it was playful because she was amused or playful in the way a cat plays with a mouse before killing it.

He winced.  _Shit, shit, shit_.  “At this instant, I think it’s definitely the ham.”

She nodded before chuckling, her face splitting into a wide smile.  “Maybe.  But this is the place to do it, I think.  To be a bit … I think the word is ‘blunt’?”  she offered.

Greg leaned towards the cat-playing-with-a-mouse analogy.  “I think the term you’re looking for is ‘asshole’, actually,” he corrected.

She broke into a laugh, throwing her head back and clapping her hand over her chest.  Greg couldn’t help but smile.  _Or maybe she’s just playful,_ he hoped.

“Maybe,” she admitted, “but our profession has its fair share of assholes.  I just never really realized I could be one myself.”

“Yeah, about that,” he trailed off.  “I didn’t mean to say …”

“No, no,” she stopped him.  “I’m the one who owes you an apology.  I just flew back from New York for business and this was the closest meeting tonight.  I snuck in the back at the last minute.”  She looked around the room of the daycare with the florescent blues, greens, oranges and yellows decorating every square inch.  “This place is … nice,” she observed wryly.

“It certainly is bright,” he confirmed, smirking.  “I’ve heard the ceiling glows in the dark,” he joked, pointing upwards.  The corners of her brown eyes crinkled slightly as she smiled.

She sighed.  “Thanks for sharing tonight.  I didn’t like hearing it, but I think I _needed_ to hear it, y’know?  The honesty was refreshing.  I’ll pass your resume along to our hiring manager with a note to put more weight on your grades and your references than your job history.  He’ll take it from there.”

Greg nodded, smiling.  “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”  She smiled and turned to go before pausing and turning back.  “Hey, Greg.  Free piece of advice: don’t sell yourself short.  What you’ve been able to accomplish in the past year is really impressive.  You should be proud.”   She touched his arm, her hand warm like her eyes.  They stood like that for a second or two and she smiled again.  _She keeps doing that_ , he thought.  It made him grin, too. 

“I’m going to go ahead and float this,” she suggested.  “Maybe you and I could get coffee sometime?  I have a lot of experience pitching a problematic history as a benefit.  We can compare notes?”  She looked at him, and he suddenly noticed the freckles dotting her tanned cheeks.

“Yeah,” Greg smiled back, enjoying the feel of her hand against his arm.  “Yeah.  I’d like that.”

Their meeting for coffee lasted hours after they stopped talking about business.

Their dinner the following Friday was distinctly personal.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, folks, so in my last chapter notes, I mentioned that that one may be the last chapter before the epilogue. So ... I was wrong. *This* chapter is the last chapter before the epilogue.
> 
> I'm particularly interested in feedback and what people feel of the developments of this chapter, so please please please let me know. It is a shift in things, so I'd love to know what you think.
> 
> As always, I'm grateful to the folks to have read and continue to read thus far. Thanks.

“No, no, dude, seriously.  I’m serious,” WhiJo laughed, his smiling face moving sporadically in the Skype window.

“No way, man,” Greg gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“So Heather and Hector crashed at her parents’ house one night, and he must have forgotten where he was or something, because he walked out, not shitting you, butt-naked right in front of her parents, who were cooking them _waffles_.”

Greg threw his head back, laughing.  “I can only imagine their reaction to that.”

“They took one, good long look at him – _all_ of him – and started firing out compliments.”

Greg smacked his couch cushion.  “That sounds like them.  What did Hector do?”

“Turned tail and ran, man.  Slammed the door to Heather’s room behind him.  Wouldn’t come out until they both left for the day.”

Greg cackled.  “He go home?”

“NO!” WhiJo laughed.  “He came HERE!”

Darryl’s head poked into frame.  “That poor guy,” Darryl lamented.  “I felt so bad for him.  I mean, being caught by your girlfriend’s parents in your birthday suit?  Right after you meet them for the first time?  That’s got to be _mortifying_.”

“At least they were complimentary,” Greg pointed out.  “It could have been worse.”

Greg glanced over his shoulder when he heard a key turn in the lock.  Caroline shouldered open the door, a bag of groceries under her arm, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor of Greg’s apartment.  Greg moved to help her, but she waved him off.

Dropping the groceries on a small island between the kitchen and the living room, she leaned over the back of the couch and looped her arms around Greg’s shoulders, planting a kiss on his cheek.  “Hey there, Ace.”  Greg felt his lips pull into an unconscious smile.  She looked up into the pixelated faces of Darryl and WhiJo.  “Hey guys.  Nice to see ya.  How’s it going over there in West Covina?”

“Hi Caroline,” they chorused. Darryl answered, “It’s going okay over here.  Never a dull moment.”

“I bet,” she confirmed, grinning knowingly before addressing the groceries, her hand trailing through Greg’s hair as she left.  His eyes followed her.

“Oh, you two are adorable.  Really, completely adorable,” Darryl gushed.

Greg’s eyes snapped back to the computer, but he couldn’t suppress his smile.

“Yeah.  I hear you on that, Darryl,” Greg admitted, his eyes straying again to Caroline as she pulled greens out of the grocery bag, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she searched the bottom of the bag.  She pulled out a bunch of parsley and held it up for Greg to see, smirking triumphantly.

WhiJo chuckled at Greg’s distraction.  “Why don’t we let you go help Caroline with dinner … and whatever else you two have planned for tonight.  Talk soon, huh?”

Greg refocused back on the computer screen.  “Yeah, guys.  Thanks for calling.  Talk soon.”

Greg clicked his laptop shut before slipping behind her at the island, reaching around her waist to plant a kiss on her neck.  She leaned into it and Greg felt her relax in his arms.

“Tough day?”

“My boss is being a jackass again.  It’s frustrating.”  Caroline handed him a small pack of envelopes.  “Grabbed your mail on the way up.”

Greg withdrew, flipping through the envelopes quickly and pulled out a letter from the lawyer handling his dad’s estate.  He had just recognized the anniversary of his dad’s passing.  WhiJo, Darryl and Hector had been checking in a lot recently.  He’d even received a couple texts from Rebecca, just to offer support.

The letter he held in his hand was just like nearly every other letter he had received from the law firm, but it felt much denser than the simple letter inside.  He could feel Caroline’s eyes on him as he looked over the envelope, the firm’s logo sharp in the corner.  Sighing, he ripped into it, flipping open the single piece of paper.  It felt very heavy in his hands.

Caroline turned off the faucet and joined him in silence as he read over the letter.  “You’re awful quiet, Greg.  It’s not like you.”

“Dad’s estate is finalized,” he breathed.  His face flashed between relief and sorrow.

Caroline wiped her hands and leaned against the counter to face him.  She stared into his conflicted expression.  “That’s a good thing, right?”

His brow furrowed and his head spun with an odd mix of emotions: he simultaneously felt heavier and lighter.  “I don’t know,” he admitted.  The work required to get the affairs in order had been significant, even with an attorney taking the brunt of it.  He couldn’t imagine trying to do it on his own.  He could celebrate that being taken off his plate.

But the process had kept his father close to him and part of his day-to-day life.  The thought of losing that again …

“Greg?”  Caroline asked, sounding concerned as she reached for his hand.  He barely heard her.  He walked haltingly over to the couch, sitting down heavily and looked at the picture of him and his dad that he kept on a bookshelf.  His dad smiled in that picture, his salt and pepper hair curly and unkempt, his face a little skinnier than Greg would have liked with the cords of his neck standing out.  It was the only picture he had of him: the only piece of his dad in his apartment.

His lips parted and he exhaled as part of him became aware of Caroline sitting next to him on the couch, her arm intertwining with his.  The estate was final.  Done.  No more to do.  He thought back over the last year and even though he knew his dad would be proud, he found the heartbreak all the more potent considering the things his dad would not see.

Dad wouldn’t see him graduate in less than a year, hopefully near the top of his class.  He wouldn’t see Greg’s successful progress in recovery.  He would never meet Caroline.

Dad would never see Greg happier than he’d ever been.

Greg gasped at that last part, the pit in his stomach opened again.  _Dammit.  I thought I was past this._

His apartment suddenly felt small and stuffy.  He needed some air.  Standing quickly, he muttered something to Caroline about going for a walk before leaving the apartment, his girlfriend calling after him.

He just needed a walk.

*********

She found him where she thought he might be: sitting on a bench underneath a cypress tree in the park a short walk from his apartment.  He leaned forward on his knees and pressed his hands together as he looked through them to the needle-strewn ground.  He looked up as he heard her approach.  “Hey,” he said, wincing.

“Hey yourself,” she responded, head tilted to the side.  “Mind if I sit down?”

He shook his head, scooting over.  “You didn’t have to come find me.  I would have come back soon.”

“Oh, I know,” she grinned dramatically.  “Everyone comes back for my cookin’.”

He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes.  Her brow furrowed again.  _I guess humor’s out_ , she thought and her heart clenched.

“So.  You wanna talk?”

“Not really,” he admitted, his fingers twitching.

She nodded.  “You wanna go back to the apartment and finish making dinner?”

“Not really that, either.”

“You want me to leave you the hell alone?”

He chuckled a little, smirking.  Caroline took that as a “yes.”

“I’ll tell you what.  I get that you need some space right now, but I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Greg looked at her, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.  _What was it about this man_? she thought.  _This witty, passionate, honest man?_ _He gets to me every time._ They’d been officially together for six months now and they were trying to take it slow.  But when she wasn’t around him, all she could think about was holding him and being held by him, curled up against his side as his arms wrapped around her.  Or the serious look on his face as he studied or his smile when he laughed.  About their affectionate teasing – or not talking at all – late into the night.  That’s not what he needed right now, it looked like, but she’d be damned to hell and back if she’d leave this amazing man alone to fight this fight.

“So here’s what I’m going to do.  There’s a lovely dogwood right over there,” she pointed to a tree 30 yards away.  “It looks like there’s one branch that’s just the perfect height to climb.  I’m gonna head over there, haul my butt onto that branch, and hang out for a bit.  You come get me when you’re ready to talk, or to head back, or whatever.  But I’m not leavin'.”

Greg shook his head.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know …”

“Don’t ever apologize for your feelings, Greg.  I know too well that grief never really goes away.  Sometimes it smacks you upside the head when you least expect it.”  Again, he chuckled, and Caroline warmed to hear it.

She walked a few steps before thinking better of it and turning.  “Greg, please know that you can let me in, okay?  You don’t have to talk, but I want to listen if you do.”

Greg grimaced, chewing the inside of his cheek.  He looked at her and, like always, she got lost in the depth of his expression.  “It’s not always pretty in there,” he smirked.

“And you think it’s pretty in here?”  She touched her temple.  “Lord, you haven’t seen the nightmares, me wakin' up in cold sweats, tremblin’ and cryin’ over the shit in my past.  I haven’t had them around you yet, but they’re comin’.”  She smiled again, sadly.  “Not a lot of people in my life have seen them.  Most who aren’t family hightail it out of there when they do.”

She bent over and kissed him, a quick, soft peck on the lips, before turning and striding to the tree.  She felt Greg watching her as she found the right branch at a slow angle upwards at about shoulder height.  Slipping off her heels, she jumped up and awkwardly pulled herself on the branch, probably giving half of Atlanta a decent show with her knee-length skirt.  She leaned up against the trunk and let her legs dangle, closing her eyes and listening to the cicadas and crickets in the warm Southern fall.

She may have dozed, but after a time she heard Greg’s even footsteps approach the tree.  She grinned lazily as she watched him, the setting sun hitting Greg’s face in such a way that made the green in his eyes burn brightly.  She slid off the branch, his hands grabbing her waist to steady her.

They stood together under the dogwood, his hands around her waist and her hands pressed to his chest as they gazed at each other.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he stated, his breath warm on her face.  His voice sounded deep and significant and Caroline knew that no matter what he said next, she would agree to it.  _What is with this man?_ she mused.

“This isn’t a one-way street,” Greg began.  “It’s going to be scary as hell and there are going to be huge pot holes, but it works both ways, okay?  You can have my back, but you have to let me have yours.”

His eyes anxiously searched hers, flicking to her eyebrows and her mouth and her expression before she answered him.  “That sounds good,” she grinned.  “I can deal with that.”

His face lit up in a huge grin and he kissed her, lifting her up off the ground before setting her back down.  She swooped up her strappy heels and wrapped her arm around his waist.  Tripping over the uneven ground and smiling like fools, they headed back to the apartment.

*********

Two and half weeks later, Caroline snapped awake with a gasp in Greg’s bed, the window blinds glowing in the moonlight.  The nightmare still clinging to her, her body trembled and her heart almost pounded out of her chest as panic still ran through her.  Tense and shaky, she wiped tears from her eyes and moved to leave in order to avoid disturbing her sleeping man, but stopped when she felt Greg’s arm wrap around the curve of her waist, his cheek pressing to the back of her head as he spooned her protectively.  His voice, his wonderful, sonorous voice, whispered in her ear, keeping her focused on him and not the dream.  “A deal’s a deal,” he muttered.

She turned in his arms, resting her head against the crook of his neck and shoulder, her fingers playing with his chest hair.  She looked up at him and met his eyes, then sighed and relaxed against his body.  “A deal’s a deal,” she agreed.


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, so this is the last part of this story. I'm quite sad to have to say goodbye to it. I've really enjoyed writing it.  
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck through to the end. Your comments have not only been gratifying but also encouraging me to keep writing. Thanks to all.  
> Please leave comments if you can. It does a soul good.

Many months and countless games of Words with Friends with Greg later, Rebecca sat on her couch drinking rosé with Valencia, Heather and Paula.  Greg had always been annoyingly good at that game and his studies had only made him harder to beat.  He kicked her ass in the latest round.  She was the lawyer and should be the one with the fancy words.  He just did market predictions and analyses, dammit.  She had called him up to prove it.

“There’s no way ‘synergistic’ is actually a word, Greg.  No way in hell.”

“It totally is!  It’s in half of my textbooks.  You’re just a sore loser.”

“I am not!  I am always gracious, especially in defeat!”

He snorted.  “Grace has never been one of your qualities, Bunch.”

Their friendly bickering had been interrupted by an image sent to Rebecca via text.  A fuzzy picture of a page of a textbook had appeared, the word “synergistic” highlighted with no less than five arrows pointing directly to it.  “See!” he crowed.  “Besides, I gave you ‘demurrer’ last week and there is no way that many ‘Rs’ actually appear in that word.”

It was nice, Rebecca decided, to have Greg as a friend.  On more than one occasion, Rebecca had called him to get his perspective or just when she needed a laugh.  Dr. Akopian had even said that it was good for her to have a man as a friend.  She had said something else after that, but Rebecca’s attention had already waned.

Back in her living room, she laughed along with Paula as they chatted.  Greg’s number lit up her phone and vibrated against the kitchen table.  She answered the phone with a cheery, “Hi Greg!” while Valencia and Heather chorused a greeting in the background.

“Hey, Rebecca.  Got a second?”

“Sure,” she chirped, leaning up against her kitchen sink and looked through the window.  “We’re just having a girl’s night in, drinking wine and chatting.”  She looked at the wine glass in her hand.  “Oh,” she muttered sheepishly.  “Should I put the wine down?”

Greg’s laugh, clear and deep, never failed to make her smile.  She’d heard more of it in the last year and a half than ever before.  “Rebecca, I can handle talking to someone while they’re drinking.”  Greg paused, uncharacteristically cagey.  “How are Heather and Valencia?”

“They’re good, actually.  Valencia’s party planning business has taken off and she’s hired another assistant.  Heather settled on a major at school.”

Silence carried over the line.  _There’s that pause again_ , she thought, intrigued.  That information should not be cause for hesitation.  “Wow, that’s really great,” he said finally.  “I’m really happy for them.  Tell them?  Or, I guess I could tell them myself.  I’ll text them and let them know so you don’t have to.  Or something.  Valencia will whip that assistant into shape really quickly.  And Heather!  What major did Heather finally choose?  Or not, finally, I guess, but kind of …”

Rebecca straightened from her lean against the sink, crossing her arm over her chest.  “Serrano, what’s the matter?  Is everything alright?”  Valencia and Heather looked over at her from the couch, their expressions concerned.  Paula rolled her eyes.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” he asked.

“You only babble when you’re nervous.”

Greg chuckled.  “So I graduate in a couple of months,” he said.

“Huh.  Time flies.”

“I know, right?  Anyway, I called some of those contacts you gave me – thanks for that, by the way – and I have a few interviews lined up in New York.”

“City?” Rebecca squeaked.

The amusement surfaced again in Greg’s voice.  “The one and only.  Caroline’s company has an office and she has some family up there, so that’s where we’re looking.  You remember Caroline.”

“Hard to forget, Serrano: the overly direct Southern belle financial planner.”

“That’s the one.” 

Rebecca could hear the smile in Greg’s voice and saw an opportunity to tease that she rarely passed up.  “To use your words, Serrano, she’s ‘smart and pretty and honest and different and …’”

“Oh, God,” Heather chimed in.  “Is he talking about Caroline _again_.  That’s, like, so gross it’s cute?”

“Okay, okay, okay.  I get it.  So anyway, Caroline’s never been out to California and it’s been a while since I was out there to visit Dad’s … well,” he paused, “so I wanted to let you know that we’re going to be in West Covina after graduation.  We would love to see you guys.”

“Of course!  I gotta say, though, Serrano: moving together to a different city; bringing her home to meet people; talking in the first-person plural.  It’s starting to sound like you two are pret-ty serious.”  Rebecca leaned back against the sink again and rolled the wine glass between her fingers.  She grinned triumphantly at Greg’s silence: she had made him blush.  It was so rare and so _rewarding_ when it happened.

“Yeah, okay, maybe,” he admitted.  “I did just give her a ring.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes.  “Greg, you two live together. I’m sure just calling her on the phone has lost some if its magic.”

“I suppose you’re right about the telephone thing,” he teased back, his voice sly and triumphant.  “But I’m more talking about the diamond type of ring.”

“ _WHAT_?” Rebecca shrieked, bolting upright and spilling half her glass down her front.

The conversation on the couch stopped and three heads snapped in Rebecca’s direction.

“ _You’re engaged?”_ she shrieked again, shocked.

The women on the couch shot to their feet and rushed over to the kitchen, their sudden voices melting into one another.

“He’s engaged?”

“To who?”

“Really?  To Caroline!”

“Holy shit.”

“That was quick.”

“Not really …”

“This is Greg we’re talking about.”

Greg’s laughter on the other end of the phone was joined by a feminine voice.  Rebecca clicked on speaker phone as the women hovered.

“Oh my,” Caroline’s Southern accent drawled.  “That was the best reaction so far.”

“Definitely,” Greg agreed.  “Your sister’s freakout was good, but your uncle did threaten me with bodily harm.”

“He’s just old school like that,” she teased.

“Yeah.  Violence is still not okay.”

“He’s 70.  Just go for the knees, honey.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Rebecca repeated, her mouth quirking up in a grin.  “Oh my God Greg, you’re serious!  You’re getting married!”  Rebecca didn’t know why, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

Greg laughed again, a smile in his voice.  “Yeah, Bunch.  Yeah, I’m serious.”

“Oh my God,” Valencia cried.  “OH MY GOD!  You _have_ to have a party and I am totally planning it!”

“I’ve heard about your classy events, Valencia,” Caroline slipped in.  “I was kind of hoping you would.”

Valencia beamed and Rebecca could see her wheels beginning to turn.  “Oh my God, Caroline, I’m going to need your phone number.  We have _so_ much to do and so little time.”

“It’s still a few months out, V,” Greg interjected.

“Greg, you really have no clue,” Valencia informed him.  “Oh.  My.  God.  This is going to be so much fun!”  She squealed as she got a text from Caroline.

Rebecca took her phone off speaker and pressed it to her ear.  “Hey, Greg,” she started.  “Congratulations.  From the bottom of my heart.”

She could hear his smile in his voice, the happy smirk that she knew so well.  “Thanks, Rebecca.  That means a lot.”  Companionable silence stretched between them.  “Look, there’s a few more calls we have to make.  See you in a few months?”

Rebecca took a breath.  “Yes.  Definitely.  I’ll be there.”

She put her phone down and took a pensive sip of her remaining wine.  Paula slid up next to her.  “You okay, Cookie?  I mean, you and Greg have been friends for a while, but still.”

“Yeah, actually I am,” Rebecca realized.  “I feel like I should be upset about this, but I just feel warm, y’know?  She makes him happy.“  She smiled in determined fondness.  “He deserves to be happy.”

“Are you sure?  Because I may have already done a public records search.”  Paula flipped her phone around and Caroline O’Connor stared out at her: dark pixie cut hanging just above intelligent brown eyes.

“Wow.”  She thought about it for a second.  “But, no.  That’s not really fair to anyone.”

Paula drew back, impressed.  “Wow, cookie.  Therapy must really be working.  Does all this enlightenment apply to Josh Chan, too?

“No.  No way.  Because Josh Chan’s a worthless piece of garbage who should rot in Hell for eternity.”

“You’re Jewish.  You don’t believe in Hell.”

“You’re right,” Rebecca confirmed.  “But Josh believes in Hell, so that’s good enough for me.”

“There’s my girl.”

*********

The engagement party was as classy as Valencia had promised.  The new Italian restaurant had opened up shortly after the local Olive Garden has closed down, the chain restaurant finally caving under complaints about inedible food and reports of strange happenings on the property.  Greg had cackled when he heard the news.

Despite Valencia’s advocacy for pictures of the couple – “they are a staple at engagement parties and ….  No.  No, Greg, listen to me, I know these things …” – Greg had balked at the poster-sized pictures Valencia had intended to display of him and Caroline.

“No. No.  No no no.  It’s bad enough that all of my closest friends are going to be staring at me all day.  I don’t need pictures of _me_ staring back at me.”

So, in the end, they displayed no pictures.  When they entered the room to the sudden cheers of their friends and family, with Caroline’s head thrown back in a laugh and Greg grinning widely, numerous pictures were taken.

Later, when Caroline snuck in Greg’s cap and tassel from graduation and perched it on the top of his head, he even posed for a few.  Reluctantly.

*******

An hour into the party, Rebecca extricated herself from the main room and took a seat at the bar.

She wished Paula were there.  Or that Valencia weren’t occupied with running the event.  At least Heather had joined her at the bar to talk.

A strong Southern drawl interrupted them.  “Mind if I join you, ladies?”  she said as she slid into the empty chair next to Rebecca, setting her iced tea on the bar.  “Please don’t let me interrupt.” 

Rebecca got the distinct impression that despite her politeness, Caroline had no intention of not interrupting.

Heather looked from Rebecca’s surprised expression to Caroline’s determined one.  “Uh, well, you girls obviously have a lot to talk about, so …” her voice trailed off, but Rebecca grabbed at her arm desperately.  Rebecca’s pleas were unsuccessful and Heather made her way to Hector, who was stuffing hors d’ouerves in his mouth between Greg and Josh while WhiJo looked on, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Back at the bar, Caroline touched Rebecca’s elbow.  “Thanks for being here today, Rebecca,” Caroline started.  “It means a lot.”

“Thanks for inviting me.  Greg has been a good friend.”

Caroline nodded.  “He speaks highly of you.  Tells me that you are at the top of your game in your field.”

Any tension remaining between them evaporated as Rebecca basked in the compliment.  “I went to Yale,” she demurred.

“Plenty of people who go to Yale don’t end up being successful.  You’re good because you’re brilliant and you’ve worked your ass off.”

Rebecca laughed and surprised herself by blushing.  “Wow,” she smiled.  “Okay.  I guess I’ll take that.”

Caroline grinned as well.  “So, from one badass professional woman to another, can I speak directly?”

“You haven’t already?”

Caroline’s eyebrow quirked and she laughed openly.  “I never have been accused of being subtle.”  She paused and smiled.  “Look, I’ve been tryin’ to get one-on-one time with you to chat since we got here, but you’re never in one place for long.  I was afraid …” Caroline stabbed at an ice cube with a straw.  “I was afraid you were avoiding us.  Or me, more precisely.”

“What?” Rebecca blurted, blue eyes wide.  This time it was Rebecca who put her hand on Caroline’s arm.  “No, no Caroline.  Not at all.  I just have a complicated history with Josh Chan.”  She nodded her head over to where Caroline had been sitting next to Greg.

“Oh, I know more about _that_ than I want to.  That man just can’t keep his mouth shut sometimes.”

Suddenly thoroughly enjoying Caroline’s presence, Rebecca took a sip of her wine.

“I also know about your history with Greg, Rebecca.”

Rebecca choked on her wine.

Caroline rubbed her back.  “Ooo.  Sorry.  Bad way to introduce that topic, I guess.”

“Caroline,” Rebecca gasped, “we’re just friends now.  He clearly adores you.  Look!” she gestured over Caroline’s shoulder.  “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since you sat down.”

Caroline turned and, sure enough, there was Greg looking worriedly back.  Caroline smiled at him and waved.  Greg waved back.  Caroline sighed, smitten.  “Dammit, he’s even charming when he’s neurotic.” Rebecca snorted.  “Probably thinks we’re comparing notes or something.”

“Why do men always think that?”

Caroline rolled her eyes.  “Who knows, honey.  Wishful thinking?  Anyway, I didn’t corner you at the bar here to, I don’t know, take down a rival or some such horseshit.  I wanted to chat.”

“What about?”

Caroline nodded, sucking on an ice cube.  “You’ve been a good friend to Greg,” she sighed.  Caroline looked down at the ring on her finger and watched the light reflect in the stone.  “I wish I had met Marco.  My gramma, God rest her soul, used to say that we’ve all had traumas.  It’s how you get through them – and with whom – that really count.  If you’re half as protective of Greg as he is of you, you’ll want to know that he’s got a partner in this fight.  We have each other’s backs.”  Caroline put her hand on Rebecca’s forearm again.  “Come visit us in New York once we get settled?”

Rebecca felt that rush of warmth again.  “I would love to,” she grinned.

*********

Greg and Caroline remained until it was only Greg’s mother, step-father, and the guys sitting with them as Rebecca Valencia and Heather remained at the bar.  Shawna teased and Greg rolled his eyes, Caroline’s hand patting his cheek fondly.  Greg shook his head and, picking up his empty glass, walked over to the bar.

“So,” he began, getting to the trio.  “I’m coming over here for a friendlier crowd.  My mom is telling Caroline stories from when I was six.”  He smirked and pulled out a chair.

“Wait, what?” Heather asked.  “Shawna’s telling embarrassing Greg stories?  I’m totally in.” Heather pushed back her chair and stood, turning to Greg.  “So, Caroline is, like, cool.  The asshole parts of her personality fit the asshole parts of your personality.”  She punched Greg’s arm.  “Way to go, dude.”

Greg looked at her incredulously.  “Thanks …?”

“C’mon, Valencia, let’s go laugh with Caroline.”

“Oh, I’m good here,” she said until Heather widened her eyes and gestured with her head.  “Oh!  Oh, yeah.  Of course.”  She stood and surprised Greg by wrapping her arms around him.  “Congrats, Greg.  Much happiness.”

“Thanks, V,” he muttered, returning the hug.  He watched as the women weaved their way through the tables. “I think Heather talks to my mom more than I do.”  His eyes narrowed.  “That’s not normal.”

“That means you should call your mother more often, Serrano.  That woman gave birth to you.”

His face screwed up in a grimace.  “Please.  That’s not a mental image I need.”

They sat in companionable silence.  Rebecca watched as Greg looked at Caroline from across the room, his gaze never leaving the quirk of her eyebrows or the smirk on her lips.

Watching him, Rebecca felt herself smile.  “I’m glad you’re happy,” she said.  “You deserve it.”

His head snapped back to her and he grinned, pink tinging his cheeks.  Rebecca scored a mental victory.

“Thanks,” he said again.  “You deserve it, too, Rebecca.  How are things going with Dr. Akopian?”

Rebecca’s shoulders fell.  “Slowly.  She says that I need to love myself to really be happy.”

“Ugh.  Corny and unhelpful.”

“I know, right?  But I think I’m getting there.  I think I’ve realized that I didn’t deserve all the bullshit that happened in my life.  That it wasn’t my fault, you know?”

Greg smiled warmly and bumped her with his elbow.  “Yeah, I know.”

Rebecca took another swig of her rosé and contemplated the imprint of her lipstick on the edge of the glass.  “Can I ask you something personal, Greg?”

He snorted.  “Rebecca, we crossed that line a long time ago.”  He turned to look at her and his face dropped to match her seriousness.  “Shoot.”

“Why Caroline?  I mean,” she stammered, “I don’t mean like ‘why Caroline’ in like a bad way like _OMG_ _why Caroline_ , but like, how did you know, or what makes Caroline, I don’t know, special, or ugh …”

Greg grinned, gazing back over his shoulder at his fiancée.  “You mean besides the pretty, smart, honest etc., etc., etc., you already know about?”  He sighed, looking down into his empty glass.  “We’re not perfect, you know?  But we mesh well.  I never have to guess with her.”  He shrugged.

Rebecca nodded, contemplating.  “She has baggage that goes with yours?”

“Yes!  Exactly.  Well put.”

“ _Rent_.”

Greg looked confused.  “Rent?  Like paying rent?”

“No, silly,” Rebecca laughed, nudging his elbow.  “Like _Rent_.  The musical.  It’s a lyric: ‘I’m looking for baggage that goes with mine’.”

“What?”

“God, Serrano.  It’s Broadway!”

Greg shrugged.  “Not really into that stuff, Bunch.”

“You’re moving to New York City and you … you mean you’re not even going to see shows when you get there?” she squealed, baffled.

Greg shrugged.  “Rather go to ball games.  And I was going to tell you how clever that line was.  Now I know you just plagiarized it.”

Rebecca smirked.  “I don’t know how they do it in the South, Gregory, but giving credit is not plagiarizing.  It’s an homage.”

“An homage?  Seriously?  You clearly intended to steal that phrase.”

“I did not!” she protested.

Greg threw his head back in a laugh, bringing his hands up in surrender.  “I should probably get back.”  He gestured over his shoulder.  “Thanks for coming, Rebecca.”  He stood and enveloped her in a hug.  He smelled like his deodorant and his aftershave, and something truly like new Greg that she couldn’t quite place.  She watched as he walked back to his family.  Caroline met her eyes and raised a glass in her direction.  Rebecca returned the toast.

********

As Greg strode out of the Italian restaurant behind the last of his guests, his cap and tassel perched haphazardly on his head, he looped his arm around Caroline’s waist.  She leaned over and kissed his cheek.  The moonlight reflected off the widows of the cars and somehow he knew his dad would have been proud.  _So this is what happy feels like_ , he thought.  And he smiled.


End file.
